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CIHM/ICMH 

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CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
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a4x 

28X 

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lire 

details 
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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


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AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


BT 


MES.  L.  ST.  JOHK  ECKEL. 


^r? 


"  I  sought  Jliin,  whom  my  soul  loveth  ;   I 
soiiKht  Him,  nnd  found  Him  not." 

"  I  found  Him,  wliom  my  soul  loveth  ;  I 

held  Him ;  and  I  will  not  let  Him  go." 

CANTICI.E. 


KEW  YORK: 

Published  fob  the  Author 


BY 


THE   UNITED  STATES  PUBLISIIINO  COMPANY, 

13  Univeusity  Place. 

1874. 


^> 


J-.  4.  a.a.s3 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1871,  liy 

Mrs.  Lizzik  St.  John  Eckel,  New  York  City,  N.  Y., 
In  tne  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Con.^resB  at  Washington. 


John  F.  Tnow  &  Son, 

PBINTKHH   ANB    BOOKniNUEBB, 

205  to  213  Eiist  TweWI>-  Street, 
New  York, 


Tick 

Tick's  Vn 
—A  1 


Maria  Mo 

Misery — / 


Tick  i.\  hk 

Roaming. 


Tick  goes  i 

TION 

Shopping- 


My  Aunts- 

Wintcr  Vii 
Uncle' 


Death  of  i 
Liric 

My  Loss  a 


'  Dl!A.CC)X  1 
Tl\c  I'ear  o 


Thf  TixEor 

"  Tlie  Sins 


Mitm>0^, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

rAGB 

"^'^'^ 5 

lick's  I'amily— Jick's  Portrait— IJomeBtic  .Scenes— Tick's  Companions— Hard  Knocks 
— A  Legacy.  . 

CHAPTER    II. 
Maria  Monk 

Misery— A  narrow  ICscapc— Abjniloned. 

CHAPTER    HI. 
Tick  in  hi: r  new  IIomk— Longs  at  last  ior  the  old  One 15 

Roaming. 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Tick  goes  a  Siioiting— She  aspires  to  be  a  Ragpicker.— Her  Aspira- 
tions KNOCKED  in  THE  II'',AD j- 

Shopping— Hopes  of  Kortune— IJisappointment. 

CHAPTER    V. 
My  Aunts—A  sturdy  Methodist— The  H  ighlands  of  Dutchess.  . .       19 

Winter  Views-Summer  Viows-The  Neighhorhood-My  Uncle's  Vievv^-More  of  ray 
Uncle's  Views— 'i'lie  wild  Woods— A  Child  of  Nature— My  first  I>ove. 

CHAPTER   VI, 

Death  of  my  Fatiier~I  work  for  "  Good  Marks  "  in  thi..  Book  of 

Life ^^ 

27 

My  Loss  and  its  Lesson— Good  Marks. 

CHAPTER    Vn. 
•'  Deacon  Dot  "—My  Childhood's  Religion 29 

The  Fear  of  tin  Lord— Sellisli  I'iety. 

CHAPTER    VIIL 
The  Illegitimate  Child 

"  The  Sins  of  the  Parents  "-No  Name— Christus  Consolator. 


0 


i" 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CIIAPTKR    IX. 

PAon 

Xobo'oy's  Ciiii.n 35 

Tlic  Plaint  of  Nobody's  Cliild. 

CHAPTER    X. 

TlIK  Woi.l-  STRIITKO  OF  SlIKEP'S  Cr.OTlIING — I  MAKE  A  KlCSOLUTlON  . .  .  .         36 
The  Wolf  and  the  Lamb— Retribution — Sigliing  for  Liberty. 

CHAPTER    Xr. 
The  Trihulations  ov  P>etsy  Dot 38 

Sweet  Revenge — Woof  and  \\     p — .\n  .\lilji. 

CHAPTER  Xn. 
Mv  Mother's  tr.vgic  E.nd 41 

My  Sistcragain — "  The  Way  of  the  'I'r.msgressor"— A  .\Liniac'.s  L'cil — Forgisencss 

CHAPTER  XHI. 
Everyhody's  Hand  acaixst  me,  and  mine  .\gainst  Ever yhody 45 

Vanity  versus  Nature — The  Pursuit  of  Knowledge. 

CHAPTER  XIV, 

My  Uncle  is  oe  Opinion  that  the  Devil  must  have  been  ikjrn  in  me.    47 

I  make  a  \ow — Voltaire. 

CHAPTER  XV. 
I  Keep  my  Vow,  iu;t  lose  .my  Eriends 49 

Aunt  Huldahand  I — Pluck— Homeless. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
I  BECOME  Reader  to  a  Shoemaker — IIis  Opinion  of  me 53 

Taming  a  Lion — Exit  from  the  Den. 

CHAPTER    XVH. 
My  Entrance  into  the  wide- wide  World 54 

Man  and  Wife — The  M'jrcy  of  Strangers. 

CHAPTER   XVHI. 
The  .Strlt.oi.e  for  Life 56 

A  Nun's  Charity .\n  Artist's  Stratagem— Kreciuent  Change  of  I!ar.^ — A  Retrospect. 

CHAPTER    XIX. 
A  NEW  ti'rn  of  the  Wheel  of  Eorti;ne — My  Marriage 60 

A  Sun'jeam — A  Prayer  for  a  Ilusbajid — The  I'rayer  answered. 

CHAPTER  XX. 
My  first  Lessons  in  Lnfidelity 64 

Misanthropy — An  InliUel — Immortality — A  Light  goes  Out. 


PACK 

35 

JTION ....         3^» 

38 

41 

rgivciioss 

BODY 45 

HORN  IN  ME.   47 

49 

53 

54 

56 

Retrospect. 
60 

64 


CONTENTS.  V 

CIIArTER    XXI. 

TAGE 

An  Inkidel's  Interprktation  or  Scripture 68 

The  Religion  of  tlie  Hililc— A  Wimtlroiis  Mcchaiiisin— Piety  and  Cocklighting— Miseries 
of  Uiilielief— \'cmis  versus  Minerva. 

CIIAl'TKR    XNII. 
Washington — Mv  IIi'sisANn  and  I  change  Places 73 

The  Study  of  Men — The  Ivy  ami  tlie  Oak— The  r.lack,i,'nard  Vote. 

CIIArTER    XXIII. 

I  Revisit  mv  Aunt— She  does  her  "Christian  Ditv"  nv  making  my 

IIUSIiAND  JEAI.f)l'S 75 

Tlic  Temple  of  Xatiire — A  Ilnshaml's  IIon<ir — N'irtU'jiis  Assassin:;— A  Keview  and  a 
Moral. 

CII.M'TER    XXIV. 

What  Jeai.oi'sv  led  to — An   Angel's  Visit,  and  its  Departure — 

The  Word  oi'  Cod 79 

The  Angel's  Visit — What  the  Word  of  ( lod  said. 

CIIAI'TER  XXV. 

Adrht 82 

A  Mother's  Vow — Inlrignes — IJonnd  fast. 

CIIAl'TKR  XXVI. 
A  Poet's  Dea rn-nEi) 84 

Dead! — I'oetry  and  Death — Death's  Welcome- -Somebody's  Daughter — The  two  Coffins 
— Grave  t'lowers. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Paris — The  Americ.\n  Colony — I  am  i'resen  ted  at  Court 9c 

I'eerinK  into  I''ntnrity — lleantifnl  France— Paris  and  the  J'.mtheon — .Saint  (jcneviivc — 
Literature.  Languor  and  Learninsj — I  am  Introduced — I  iitili/e  "  l,es  Inntiles" — 
I'eniinine  I  )ip!oni. icy -Capture  of  a  Diploiiuit — Ancestry — An  Kii;;lish  Heart. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
Mv  Octogenarian  liEAU — A  Noisle  Irish  Family  and  an  Irish  M. P.   101 

Marrying  a  Title  — The   Duke  de   Morny — I  prove  that  1  was  Born — The   Life  of  Jesus — 

Systematic  I'heology  — My  I 'ricnds. 

CHAPTI'.R  XXIX. 
A  Night  oe  Horror— .\lone  with  a  Corpse — Mr.  D.vyton loS 

'The  American  Minister — 1\  Jud^e  of  Ilorse-Klesli— Tlie  I'rospects  of  Ralscratch — A  Pro- 
tector—lleatli—'l'he  Hand  of  (lod — IJespair — The  Son — 'J'he  Wife  and  Daughter — 
Where  Death  had  been — Retrospect  of  a  Niyht. 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

The   Recollection    oe    riii'.    Pasi*    saves   me    fro.m   a   Drunkard's 
Grave — The  "Sisters  of  liOPE." 119 

Medicine  for  .Melancholy — Lcs.seps — Prostration — The  Nim  and  the  Child — It  is  the 
Lord's  E'raytr. 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CIIArTKR  XXXI. 

I'AOB 
L.VFERRlfeRE > 125 

'I'hc  Spectre  of  the  Feast— In  High  Life — 'I'lie  Viscuiiiit— Am  Ainuricnn  Princess— 'I'eto-i- 
iStc. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

I.N  Love 129 

'I'ho  (\c  Montalcniliurls — I  visit  tin;  Viscount— Master  and  Servant— The  Viscuunt  at 
Home— The  Viscount's  History— liuricd  Loves  — I  tell  my  .Story. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A  GENinNE  Repuhlican  in  seakch  oi-  A  Title 136 

I  interpret  for  Ratscratch— The  Ril)lion  is  earned. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

I  r.O  TO  CUUKCH— A  PrF.ACUKII  DRAWS  MY   PuK  lUAIT I38 

I  am  preached  at — Giving  for  Ond'ssaUo — ('onipclled  to  Snnendcr. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
A  little  Convert— Tiik  litt[.e  Old  Shoe 141 

A  list  of  Names — I  part  with  my  Child — A  Dream  comes  back — The  Visconnt's  Letter — 
Homeward  bound. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
New  York  in  Mourning — Les  .Miserarles — Laeerrikre's  Letter.  . .  146 

Lone  Women — My  Monitors — The  Sphere  of  Woman — ^"J'he  Child  of  the  Convent— A 
Child  of  Paris— The  Viscount  and  the  Child— The  'I'hirst  for  Ciold— Tl  e  Old  World 
and  the  New — Synipatliy — The  desolate  Hearth — Pleasures  of  .Menioiy— A  willing 
Exile. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

Awaking  from  a  delusive  Dream — Sacrificed  on  a  Family  Altar..  159 

Return  to  France — Hright  Prospects — Disappointment — 'Ine  Viscount's  Daughter — 
Jealousy — A  Dream  of  ill  Omen. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 
Vanity  of  Vanities,  and  Vexation  of  Si-irit 163 

I  dispense  Favors — F.nemies  and  Heijgars — An  unwelcome  Visit — The  Ways  of  the 
World — Autunni  and  Spring. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Maria  Monk's  Confession — The  most  awful  of  her  "awful  Dis- 
closures"      169 

a  plea  of  Guilty — Recommendation  to  Mercy —Monk  ?irsHS  I  larpcr — An  impartial  Kdilor 
— 'J'he  summing  up. 

CHAPTER  XL. 

Laferrikre  and  Gibbon — The  Ladies  of  the  Holy  Family — Their 

Home  at  St.  Mandi':  174 

An  unheroic  Convert — Heirlless  Mockers — A  new-fashioned  Postulant — My  uncvjiccted 
Paradise — -An  historical  Mirr<ir. 


•ti:il  Kditor 


CONTENTS.  vn 

CHAI'TKR  XLI. 

I'AGR 
LiKK   AMONG   THE   NlTNS iSo 

A  Spanish  Nun — liuoks  for  U.sc  ami  (or  Sliow—An  oncyLlopitilir  Nun — Crunilis  (if  Com- 
fort— Cluistcrcil  Happiness  — "  I'lio  I'lcail  of  I, ifc"— Wrestling  in  I'rayer  for  Mu. 

fllAI'TKR   \[.ir. 
'I'liK  Way  ok  tiik  Ckoss iSj 

I'ilgrlniagos — Christ  hcforc  I'llatc — 'I'hc  Mother  of  Sorrows — The  Cyreriian — The  Women 
of  Jerusalem — A  ( Iliiiipse  of  Calvary — Thou  hast  loveil  me  unto  I)eath--rho 
Sepuleluv. 

CHAI'TKR  XI.IH. 
i;em;k.\i,  Rom.i.n's  "  Aints  " — A  Sti'miii.inc-di-ock  kkmoveo 195 

Ceneral  Rollin — The  (ieneraPs  l.ove — SiujiriseJ  at  I'rayer — The  Kosary — 'I'hreu 
Chaplcts — A  I'usy  from  I'.ossuet. 

CHAPTER  X[,IV. 

A    SPI.KNKTIC    Sl'INSTKR 200 

A  perverse  Nature — A  Nuei's  Revenge — Rare  Christian  Charity. 

CH ai'ti;r  xlv. 

Power  ok  a  Child's  kki'roa<  iuti.  Look 203 

Perversity  itself-  A  Moral. 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

TllK    PANTHKON — "  SKliMO.NS    IN    StONES" 20$ 

Sunlight— Petitions  gr.-inted— More  Petitions— The  Column  Vcndome— A  Patriotic  Nun — 
A  Parallel. 

CHAPTER  XLVH. 
Ax  oi,i)  Soldier's  Views— Society  is  edikied 211 

The  Pope  and  the  Kmperor — (leneral  Kollin  on  Nims — Kemininc  Philosophy. 

CHAPTER  XLVHI. 
The  Anoeh^s   Bell — Prs   Chimes   touch   the  de.vdened  chord  ok 

KILIAI,    AKKECIIoN 215 

Job's  Friends  condole— More  powerful  than  dud — The  Hell-ringcr — The  Angelus — All- 
.Souls'  Day— "  The  (Jualily  of  .Mercy." 

CHAI'TKR  XLLX. 
A  Fk.mai.e  "  Tnqitsitor  " 220 

An  Intimate  l''.nemy — An  ( )liject  of  Charity— ( Iratitude  ! — .\  Visit  and  a  Comedy — The 
Comedy  continued — .Music  and  a  'I'ahleau — The  Otiject  of  the  Visit — The  .After- 
piece— I'lying  ill  the  Kace  of  (!od. 

CHAPTER  L. 

A  Peal  ok  LArciiiER  Sounds  the  Resurrection  Note  ok  a  Soul 
Lo.NG  Dead  in  Sin 230 

The  Power  of  Pride — Nuns'  Laughter— A  Prayer  repeated — The  Prayer  granted. 


!l  II  li 


II 

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VHi  CONTEN    S 

CIIAPTI        ,: 

PACIK 

Diamond  cut  Diamond 234 

Prayer,  with  a  ''  IJ'  traction" — A  Wifc'.i  I'liilosoijliy — Married  Bliss. 

CIIAl'TER  LII. 
A  M.VN  OK  God— The  Author  ok  Si'iuituai.i.sm 237 

A  .Missionary  Bishop— A  Good  Listener — My  Idols  upset — A  Short  Biography  of  Satan 
— The  Bishop  on  SpirituaUsm — Spiritism  and  tlic  Church. 

CHAPTER  LIII. 
Moral  iNOKrENDENCK, — Practical  Atheism 242 

No  Jlorahty  without  God — Moral  Obligations. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
The  Vao ARIES  oe  Scientists — The  Wisdom  ok  Religion 245 

Rome  :  Peniocracy — Irecdmn  and  License — I'alse  .Science — God  First  Cause — Divine 
rcrniission — Piviiie  Providence — The  .Sanction  of  Law— Ji4stice  and  Mercj'— The 
Mystery  of  .Sun'criiig. 

CHAPTER  LV. 
The  Mother  ok  Civilization ?54 

A  Rehellious  Monk — I'ree  Will — Faith  without  Works — J'he  Mission  of  the  Church. 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
Mother  and  Son 258 

"  'J'he  Mother  of  my  Lord  " — A  Mother's  Anguish, 

CHAPTER  LVI  I. 
■  The  Divine  Tkac.edv  " — The  Prayer  ok  Omnipotence 260 

A  Rule  of  luterpretatiou — 'J'he  Prelude  of  the  .Sacrifice— The  Gospel  of  Love. 

'"UE    AOONV 263 

'I'he  Garden  of  Agony — The  l'ai)tism  of  Blood. 

The  Arrest 261; 

'I'he  Tr.iitcjr';.  Kiss— The  Lamb  amid  tlie  Wolve;. — Abandoned  by  His  Own. 

The  Trlm 267 

Seeking  Charges — An  illegal  Trial — False  Witnesses — Condemned  to  die. 

The  Deniai , 271 

Peter's  Repentance. 

TifE  Traitor's  Death 272 

'I'he  Despair  ol  Judas. 

Pilate 273 

'i'he  Pharisees'  Scruple- -.A  new  Charge — Pilate's  Question. 

Fro.m  Herod  to  I'm, ate , 277 

A  Timeserving  Politician — A  I  lee-lliinking  Tctraicli. 


COxXTENTS.  IX 

PACK 

The  Choice 278 

Sc.'iurging  tlie  Innocent — Releasing  the  Guilty. 

"  Behold  the  Max  !  " 2S0 

A  iiroplietlc  Histurv. 

TiiK  Sf.xtexce 282 

A  cowardly  Governor — 'J'lie  Curse  of  Ulood. 

TiiK  Execution' 284 

Tlie  infamous  Cross — Tears  of  Compassion — The  King  of  the  Jews — The  Crucifixion — 
Scenes  on  Calv;u-y. 

A  Mother's  Aooxy 2S8 

"IJelioUl  thy  Mother." 

Nature  Protests 290 

Desolation — "The  Son  of  God." 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 
Napoleon  and  Christ — I  lose  my  saintly  Instructor  29^ 

The  living  Gospel — "  I  am  God  " — The  Conqueror  of  Hearts — In  Peace. 

CHAPTER  LIX. 
My  new  Teacher 295 

The  I'roiniseJ  Keileemcr — The  Prophecies— The  Messiah — The  Kingdom  of  God — For- 
giveness of  Sins — God's  Inslvunieuts. 

CHAPTER  LX. 
The  Pope 301 

"  He  sliall  lead  his  Klock." 

The  CiiirRCH  oe  England 303 

A  Scrnpnlous  Monarch — An  English  Sanhedrim— ^Religion  by  Statute — Board  of  Trade 
and  Doctrine. 

CHAPTER  LX[. 
THii  Miracle  of  Miracles 307 

The  Mystery  of  Lo\e — Christ's  own  Memorial. 

The  Mass 308 

The  Perpetual  Sacrifice — Mystic  Symbolism, 

CHAPTER  LXn. 
The  rxQuismoN 311 

All  Instrumrnt  <if  Desiiotisni — The  S|)irit  of  the  Ai^c— Reformed  ln(|ui>:itors — A  preju- 
diced Historian — .\n  miphlcL'm.iiic  Dntchniai.  -ILiililmg  I'"Atraits — .\n  nnpatrioiic 
Spaniard — 'I'he  Moors  in  Spain — 'I'he  Pope  and  llif  King — Admissions  of  Opponents 
— The  I'.njilish  Iiuinisiiion— 'J'he  Pope  interferes— A  royal  Machine — \  Spanish 
State  Church  — Toleration  not  Sanction, 


X         -  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LXIII. 

PAfiK 

I  AM  Born  again— My  new  Likk  326 

My  Christmas—"  It  was  not  all  a  Dream  "— Kirst  Communion— My  Home  Devil. 

C1L\PTER  L:^IV. 

CORRECTINT,  TIIF,  iNORRlGIIiLK 329 

A  Xreasiiro  jfunu— Cnrc  fir  a   .Spinster's  Spleen— Cunfii.^ijn  in  the  Convent — A  Sleeping 
Witness. 

CHAPTER  LXV. 
A  Trtce  with  my  Arch-enemy 334 

A  I'arlcy  and  a  'J'reaty — I'he  Knemy's  Pity. 

CHAPTER  LXVI. 

SiMPLICITV     THE     TEST    OK     TrUE     NOUIEITY — JEAN     JaCQUES      TO    THE 

RKiicuE 335 

(!ood  lireeJing — Proud   Humility — My  Patience  Tested — An  old  Story  adapted — Jean 
Jacques'  Mistake — I  gain  my  Point. 

CHAPTER  LXVH. 
General  Roi.i.in's  Idea  ok  a  "Retreat" — .Madam  Xumer's  Anti- 
do  IE  FOR  Sorrow ....  34 1 

A    Hallowed    .Scene — 'I'he   Ahliaye  aiix    l!ois — 'I'he   ('■eneral  Charyes    .again — Keposinf; 
One's  JIa..-Ki     .veil  to  St.  Maude. 

CHAPTER  I.XVni. 
My  Enemies  vanquished — Pi.eam'ue  tales — I  envy  the  Lowly 346 

Worldly   Success — Conscience  and    Heart — I'ond   Memory  —  /.<■  hiid  lUuii-nwiidc — I'lie 
False  World. 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 
Mv  Soul   in  Darkness — The    Countess  de    Montai.emdeut  iskinos 
hack  the  Eight 351 

A  new  Departure— A  w^ss  I'erccher — 'I'he  old  and  the  new  KeL;ime. 

CHAPTER  EXX. 
The  Ladies  oe  the  Rei'uea'p — .\  HdnH';  ok  'irue  Christian  Charity.  .  355 

Another  Sanctuary — 1  he  Peace  of  (lod. 

CHAPTER  LXXL 

M.\DAM    XaVH.R    IIUAVES    THE    SPANISH    CmiMt'NE — .\    WOINDED    HeART 

REEUSE.S    TO  1!E  hi: ALKD 356 

The  hcniicNnu — A  lament, 

chapti:r  lx\'[l 

A  SisTKR  OK  Charity  in    ihi,  .Morning,  a  Woman  ok  the  World  in 

THE  Al  I'EKNOON 35y 

An  early  \'l>ii— Lessons  to  Misery — A  I.i;iht  to  my  Con^eioncc. 


CONTENTS.  XI 

CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

PAGR 

The  Giustinis — My  Vow 362 

All  l'',asterii  CJiiestion — A  Policeman  with  a  Heart — A  Syriai,  Mother — The  model  Official 
— A  mute  Appeal — An  irate  Laiullaily — Kveniiij;  Metlitatioiis — A  bedrooni  Sanctuary 
— Kaith  in  (jod — Chiklren  in  the  Abbey. 

CIIAl'TKR   r>XXIV. 
Cam. KM  TO  Task  1!y  Commi ).n'  Sfask 37 1 

My  Client's  Character— I'aith  in  I'ureaucracy — TIic  Wurds  of  my  Master^.Vdvice  thrown 
away. 

CHAPTER  LXXV. 
TiiK  Ma.v  who  knviki)  his  Vai.i'.t 376 

I  invoke  the  Viscount's  Aid — An  official  Sinibljing — Kccjrct.s — Reg.  ;tn  regretted, 

CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

A  HOI'KFl'T,  Cl.OSK  O!    A  KAD    ElFK 379 

History  of  a  Life — (leneral  Di.\ — .\n  Ambassador's  .Sympathy— The  Minister  won  over. 

CHAPTER  LXXVH. 
CnrRCH  Mick. — How  thf.y  Ni)iin,F,  ai-  tiif.ik  Nkichhors'  Ch.vracters 

—Is  THKUK  A.\Y  HopF,  1-OU  THL.M  ? 384' 

I'lowers  and  Hread^ — A  Lecture  on  Devotees-- A  Minister  always  "  out  " — i'lie  Minister's 
Merits — More  Mowers  of  I'iety — The  lluniilily  of  Charity — A  Lay  I'reaclier  and  Cou- 
fesiior — .Self-satisfied  Virtue — I'reaching  and  Practice. 

CHAPTER  LXXVH  I, 
A  Gi.EAM  OK  Hoi'F. 393 

A  Discovery- — Confidence  rewarded — I  write  to  the  Minister — The  Answer. 

CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

Sad  Mkmorif.s  NF.AKi.v  THW.M^T  MY  Missio.N  OF  CnARiTY— Tiif:  Mar- 

(jns  i)F  MdUsiiKR 397 

"  Hnly  a  Pauper"— "()  yc  Tears"— 'I'ho  M.ither— At  iIk;  Minister's — Ple;;dinj.'  the  Case 
— The  Minister  confesses — Tlie  Suit  Wcjii — A  confidonti.d  Talk. 

CILXPTER   I.X.XX. 
Ksi'iiiNAc.F,  A  iWD-FDHi-.r)  .SwiiKii— TiiF.  .Sf.cki/i'  I'oi.irK  (,K  Paris 405 

Ihe  Pre  fit  of  Police -The  Prifixt's  \'alet— A  "walclifiil"   Servant— llia\irig  a    Spj — 
'I'lie  S\y  made  useful — "  Choice  of  Directoi.;" — Self-reproach. 

('IF.\PTER  T.W'Xr. 

KlIZA    A  MORK, 411 

The  I'.ngli.li  (lirl'^  (Ir.ive — The  liateil  Name — One  of  the  "  I'ortuwale" — A  Urave-diij- 
ger's  .Sympailiy. 


1: 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LXXXri. 

TACA'. 

TjtE  Triumph  of  a  Mother's  Eaith 416 

Stmily  Hcggars — The  Viscount  avenged — I'aitli  and  Gallantry — My  "  Director's  "  ap- 
proval. 

CIIAl'TER  LXXXIII. 
Remorse  of  renegade  Nins — The  Hkartlessnessof  the  Poor  for 

THEHl  FALI.KN  SlSTKRS 4I9 

Clinical  Studies — Escaped  Nuns— The  "Virtues"  of  Paupers — Compari.^Dns — Heart- 
sick. 

CHAPTER  LXXXIV, 
The  Dream — The  Warning — Was  it  the  Voice  of  God  ? 424 

A  Prayer  and  a  Vision — A  L';tter  arrives — A  Warning — Another  Letter — A  Frenchwoman 
on  Divorce — 'Hie  plea  of  the  Chiklron — Kind  Words  at  parting— A  Letter  which  is  a 
Sermon — Modesty. 

CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

Defeated  py  a  Woman,   I  have  Kecouuse  to  Con — Accident  to  the 

Perkire 434 

"The  cause  of  all  Evil  " — Another  .Sermon  by  post — My  Friends  are  edified — Ovid,  with 
a  translation — "  tJood  hocicty" — Uejjgars  on  llorseliack. 

CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 
Midnight  Reflections  hkfoue  the  LooKiNci-oLASs 440 

Why  I  lonkeys  eat  Thistles. 

CHAPTER  LXXXVH. 
A  Truce  between  Husband  and  Wife 440 

Democracy — 'I'lieir  Majcsiie.-i  and  tlen.  Dix. 

CHAPTER  LXXXVHI. 

Back    in    the   Higiilam)s— Aunt  Hui.dah  on    Infai.lihilitv— The 
mich-coveted  spot  my  own 443 

My  old  Home — My  l>rothcr--Was  Noah  a  (.,'atholicV — A  Retrospect  of  Hetsy  Dot — I  buy 

the  liule  Colt.ige — Freiii  h  Men,  Anicricin  Women. 

CHAPTER  LXXXIX. 
Restitution  and  Retrihution 441^ 

Aunt  Mercy — A  Receipt  in  full. 

CHAPTER  XC. 
The  Sacrifice 450 

Our  Laly  of  Victories--"  I  v.  Ill,  Lord"~-l  kec)!  my  Word— Obedience  and  Sacrifice. 

(   Il.M'J'EI;    XCl. 

MONTK.SQUIEU  and    I'IH',  JLSUIIS ^5^ 

A  Jesuit  Confe^sur — St.  Aimiiitiiie'a  L'onfesaion.s. 


PAGI! 
416 

rector's  "  ap- 

rOOR  FOR 

419 

■ons — Heart- 

424 

i'reiiclnvDiuaii 
tor  wliicli  is  a 

■,NTTO  THE 

434 

1— Ovid,  witli 

'.••••      440 

440 

ni.ITY — TlIK 

443 

ctsy  Dot— I  buy 

449 

450 

il  Sacrifice. 

454 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

CHAPTER  XCII. 

TAGIC 

Inconsisten'cy  of  the  Heart — I  seek  God's  W'll  in  His  Word 457 

A  wrctcliod  Triumph — Kccollectioiis  of  Prophecy — Consulting  the  Bible— My  Director  dis- 
approves. ' 

CHAPTER  XCHI. 
Death  of  the  Cou.nt  de  Montalembert— My  first  "  Retreat  " — A 
supernatural  Command 460 

Sacred  Death — An  Inspiration — Mr.  de  Corcelles — ^The  Archbishop  of  New  York — "  Of 
the  same  Opinion  still." 

CHAPTER  XCIV. 
Reason  and  Love — Peace  to  be  found  not  in  Man,  but  in  God 466 

The  aching  Hearts — Human  Love — J'rne  Rest. 

CHAPTER  XCV. 
My  Douhts — God  dispels  the.m  469 

Vacillation — A  l!uj;hcar  from  Muntcsquieu — One  Friend  at  Home — Indecision — ^The  Bible 
decides— 1  he  broken  Harp. 

CHAPTER  XCVI. 
Adieu,  la  France — My  good  little  Angel 474 

An  Angel  of  Consolation — "  ()ut  of  the  Mouth  of  liabes" — "My  Normandy  " — "The 
good  Shepherd  " — \  Vision  verified — Last  Glimpse  of  France — Words  from  kind 
Hearts— Holy  Words  from  a  Statesman. 

CHAPTER  XCVn. 
Escape  from  the  Jesuits  Impossible — Madam  Hardey  .\gain 483 

Manhattanville — A  New  York  Jesuit — Encouragement — "  Mother"  Hardey. 

CHAPTER  XCVHI. 
Il  Faut  tr ancher  le  m al — The  "  Sprats  " 487 

Small  Fry — Unheeded  Chastisements — Ichthyological  Studios — ^The  Same,  Continued, 

CHAPTER  XCIX. 

Aid  fou  the  Victlms  of  the  Franco-Prussian   War — Fernando 
i        Wood  as  a  Prophet 491 

Kind  Words  from  Franco — A  Frenchwoman  on  France — A  Cry  for  Help-Claims  on 
our  CJratitude— Father  Hecker — The  Crj'  heeded — Fern.indo  Wood's  Prophecies. 

CHAPTER  C. 
Confirmation  of  my  Mission  to  Build  a  Church 498 

Doubts  Dispelled— Silenced  if  not  Convinced — Thanks  from  France — A  Church  to  St. 
Genevi6ve. 

CHAPTER  CI. 
A  Jesuit  on  the  Temporal  Power 501 


H 


■J 


ii 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  CII 

I'AGI! 

"  TiiK  Goon  Country  Pkoplk  " 502 

A  House  in  the  Country — "  Rural  Dcliglils  "  —  1  cntjage  a  Kustic  Swain — With  Wife  and 
two  Children — And  Mother,  Cousin,  Cow  and  Pig. 

CHAPTER  CHI. 
A  Meek  Lamb,  and  a  Lion-like  Shki'herd 507 

Father  Tandy — Paring  the  Lion's  Claws— He  Roars  "  Gently  as  a  Dove." 

CHAPTER   CIV. 
Laferri^re's  last  Letter — Discouraged — I  am  reassured  ky  the 
BinLE 509 

The  long-wislicd-for  Letter — "Infandum  renovare  Dolorum" — The  Emperor — Anguish 
— A  Day  happily  ended—"  Our  Fallier" — Subniisbion  to  Fate. 

CHAPTER  CV. 
An  Exodus 516 

Patience  ceases  to  be  a  Virtue — .-k  Microcosm  in  a  Wagon. 

CHAPTER   CVI. 
Father  Tandy's  Story 519 

A  Chapter  of  Accidents — At  Father  Tandy'.s — Knme.shing  the  Lion — He   tells  a  Story 
— The  Moral  of  tlu  .Story — It  fails  to  convert  me. 

CHAPTER   CVII. 

EnC01R.\GE.MENT   AND    DESPONDENCY  :    TllE    ISIULE  IHDS    ME    "  NOT    TO 

i"e.\r  '' 524 

I  visi'  the  Archbi.shop — His  Grace  isgracicju.s — Succes.s — Hegging — New  Strength — One 
true  Friend. 

CHAPTER    CVIII. 
My  Driving  Lesson 530 

A  Race  against  Time — I  put  my  Trust  in  Man — My  confidence  dashed. 

CHAPTER    CIX. 
A  r.M.sE  I.iniiT — A  TRUE  Dream 533 

A  Friend  in  need — A  sulphurous  Liijht — A  Dream — l''ather  Kearney — Diverse  Interpreta- 
tions. 

CHAPTER    ex. 
Tempt.vtion — Saved  hy  the  IJiiii.E — My  first  General  Confession.       539 

Misgivings — God  is  a  je.'dous  Lover — A  Noven.a — Words  of  Mercy — Their  Application 
—Confession  of  a  Lifetime. 

CHAPTER   CXL 
The  Efficacy  of  Prayer — Detachment  of  the  Heart 545 

The  lime  Girl's  Prayer — TheCrucifi.\--Wordsof  Mercy  repeated— "Give  me  thy  Ht.irt." 


^oT 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

CHAPTER   CXII. 
Hard  Knocks — The  Bible  my  Physician — "  The  Church-Mice  "  try 

TO  DRIVE  ME  FROM  THE  IIOUSE  OF  tloi) 549 

My  Director  distrustful— Words  of  Comfort — Nibbliiigs  of  Church-Mice. 

CHAPTER   CXIII. 
"The  Board  of  Grace "  sit  on  me — I  am  toi.d  to  write  a  Book  ...      551 

Church-Mice  in  Council — Father  Unpst — Adieu  to  Laferriere — I  shrink  from  writing  a 
Book — liastur  Joys. 

CHAPTER  CXIV. 
Shadows  of  the  Past — Disappointment 557 

Aunt  Huldah  and  her  Heirs — The  Chapel  and  Altar-piece — ^I'he  Arcl.bishop  declines — 
Father  li.ipst  consents. 

CHAPTER  CXV. 
The  Bim.E  changes  Disappointment  into  Hope 560 

The  Day  before  the  Great  Day. 

CHAPTER  CXVI. 
St.  GENEVitvE's  Chapel 562 

Morning  K.icrifice — Gloria  in  l'"..\celsis — "The  Finger  of  God"— The  Sermons — A  Child's 
Criticism. 

CHAPTER  CXVH. 
Brother  Letique's  Story— Supernatural  Guidance 566 

A  Lay-brother's  Views — Consulting  the  Hible— liegging  for  a  Home — Humiliation. 

CHAPTER  CXVni. 
What  is  a  Jesuit? 571 

Dictionary  Knglish — What  the  Master  counselled — "The  Company  of  _'esus" — What  the 
Jesuits  teach — Their  love  for  their  Society. 

CHAPTER  CXIX. 

An  Echo  of  the  Past — Solitude,  Suffering,  and  Resignation — A 
Sister'  s  II ate 576 

A  Voice  from  France — In  my  new  Home — My  Mistress  of  Novices — The  black  Virgin  of 
I'oland — The  blessed  Virgin  helps  me — Hunger  and  Cold — Maria  Monk's  other 
Daughter — Old  .Scenes  revived. 

CHAPTER  CXX. 

Christmas  at  the  Convent  Cottage— St.  GeneviIcve' s  Feast— Faith 
rewarded 583 

"Merry  Christmas"— St.  Genevieve's  Day— A  Godsend. 

CHAPTER  CXXI. 
Humility ,   .  5S6 

False  views  of  Humility.  „ 


v% 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

PAGR 

CHAPTER  CXXII. 

I    LEARN    THAT    I    AM     NOT    TO    SKICK  TO    KNOW  Goo'S    WlI.L    IN    EXTRA- 
ORDINARY Ways — .My  Vocation — Hotel  Dieu 5S8 

All  iron  H;ind — "I  was  sick,  and  you  visited  iiic" — Hopes  and  Intentions. 

CHAPTER  CXXHI. 
Charity 590 

A  vision  of  Lilies — Their  perfume  is  Charity. 

CHAPTER  CXXIV. 

The  healing  of  the  Nations — Vagrancy  and  Crime — Where  is  the 
Remedy  ? 592 

Wanted  :    Apostles-    '  What  are  these  amoiig  so  many  ?  " — Sheep  without  a  Shepherd — 
Fathers  of  Christ's  Family. 

CHAPTER  CXXV. 
What  Protestants  must  he  prepared  for 597 

Stumbling-blocks — "  I  have  given  yon  an  I''xample" — Prejudice  and  Cowardice — Heroism 
of  the  Priesthood — Who  is  my  Mother  ? — Material  aids. 

Conclusion 602 

What  I  have  learned — My  Father. 


TAGE 


N    EXTRA- 


5S8 


MARIA  MONK'S  DAUGHTER. 


•  59° 


;rE  is  the 


593 


a  Shepherd- 


597 


lice — Heroism 


602 


CHAPTER   I, 

TICK. 

In  the  year  1843  a  family  of  the  name  of  St.  John  occupied  the 
first  floor  and  basement  of  a  tenement-house  in  Goerck  street,  in 
the  city  of  New  York.  The  basement  was  used  as  a  kitchen  and 
sleeping  apartment  for  the  servant.  The  first  floor  consisted  of  two 
rooms,  the  front  one  of  whi<;h  was  occupied  as  a  bedroom,  and  the 
back  one  did  the  double  service  of  a  dining  and  sitting  room.  The 
front  room  was  covered  with  a  chea)),  faded,  ingrain  carpet,  w'hile  a 
dirty  rag  Ci'.rpet  did  a  similar  duty  for  the  other,  and  a  few  cheap  ar- 
ticles completed  the  furnishing  of  both.  On  the  walls  of  these  dingy 
and  scantily  furnished  apartments  hung  five  or  six  rare  oil  paintings 
of  great  value.  .  They  were  the  only  articles  of  luxury,  and  they 
formed  a  strange  and  cheering  contrast  to  the  meanness  of  all  else. 

The  family  consisted  of  fi  ur  i)ersons,  the  father,  mother,  and  two 
little  daughters.  The  father  might  have  been  forty;  but  the  deep  fur- 
•  rows  on  his  face  showed  premature  signs  of  age.  He  had  been  a  wild 
boy ;  had  run  away  fronj  home  ;  had  been  to  sea,  and  had  travelled 
nearly  all  over  the  world,  and  would  never  return  to  his  boyhood's 
home,  unless  driven  by  misery,  ill  health,  or  despair.  He  was  his 
mother's  favorite  son,  and  the  pet  of  his  aunt  Huldah  (his  mother's 
sister)  :  they  both  doted  upon  him,  and  would  receive  the  prodigal 
with  opeii  arms  and  forgiving  hearts,  whenever  he  wculd  appeal  to 
them  for  shelter  or  assistance.  He  had  four  brothers  then  living,  all 
of  whom  had  risen  to  wealth  and  position.  'I'he  St.  Johns  were  said 
to  be  descended  from  one  of  the  noblest  English  families.  They 
traced  their  genealogy  to  Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Bolingbroke.  Mr. 
St.  John's  brothers  were  his  very  oj^posites.  They  were  energetic, 
industrious,  and  ambitious.     They  all  spurned  and  shunned  their  err- 


tick's  family. 


V] 


r  i-t' 


ing  brother,  and  left  him  to  that  lot,  wliich  usually  biifalls  those,  who 
prefer  pleasure  to  labor,  and  the  gratification  of  their  passions  to  the 
fulfilment  of  duty.  His  follies  had  been  many,  and  his  punishment 
was  severe.  The  hour  of  retribution  had  come,  and  demanded 
payment  for  a  misspent  life,  and  it  found  him  ill  prepared  to  accpiit 
himself  of  the  debt.  For  his  mind  had  always  been  set  on  what  the 
world  calls  pleasure,  on  being  free  and  untrammelled  by  the  restraints 
of  the  laws  of  God  and  well-regulated  society.  He  had  no  religious 
convictions,  and  therefore  nothing  to  sustain  him  in  this  combat  with 
misfortune  and  misery.  He  stood,  or  rather  lay,  thoroughly  de- 
fenceless in  their  iron  grasp. 

The  woman,  whom  he  called  his  wife,  and  with  whom  in  an  evil 
hour  he  had  linked  his  destiny,  was  the  instrument  Providence  had 
chosen  to  bring  the  misguided  "lan  to  repentance.  She  was  in  her 
twenty-sixth  year,  and  might  once  have  been  handsome  ;  but  a  life  of 
misery  and  sin  had  already  robbed  her  cheeks  of  their  roses  and  her 
form  of  the  graces  of  youth.  She  was  short  in  stature,  thick  set,  with 
oval  features,  dark-gray  eyes,  and  long,  brown  hair.  The  reader  can 
best  judge  of  her  character  and  disposition  from  her  acts. 

The  eldest  daughter,  whom  I  will  call  Georgina,  must  then  have 
been  in  her  eighth  year.  Her  large  hazel  eyes  lighted  up  a  face  of 
Grecian  mould  and  matchless  beauty.  She  had  a  (luick  aptitude  for 
acquiring  knowledge,  and  at  that  early  age  would  read  story-books 
and  the  newspapers  aloud  to  her  mother. 

The  expression  of  her  face  v^as  cold  and  sad,  and  bespoke  what 
she  really  was,  the  ofi'spring  of  misfortune.  Her  nature  was  proud 
and  wilful.  She  had  never  been  treated  like  a  child ;  she  had  been 
fed  upon  praise  from  her  mother's  breast,  and  whatever  she  did  or 
said  was  considered  perfect.  Every  childish  wish  was  gratified,  and 
her  family  treated  her  as  though  they  were  there  only  to  do  her  hom- 
age. Yet,  notwithstanding  such  a  pernicious  course  of  early  training, 
she  was  superior  to  most  children  of  her  years,  and,  even  at  tliat  ten- 
der age,  her  actions  were  guided  more  by  reflection,  than  by  cliildisii 
imi)ulse. 

The  younger  daughter  was  just  the  opposite  of  her  sister  m  looks, 
in  character,  and  in  dispo^iition.  She  was  in  her  sixth  year ;  and  as 
she  had  never  been  known  to  keep  still,  everybody  called  her  "  Tick." 
She  was  very  homely — so  homely,  that  the  boys  in  the  streets  would 
make  fun  of  her,  and  her  mother  and  sister  would  constantly  tell  her, 


tick's  portrait. 


;  reader  can 


that  "  she  was  the  ugliest  child  they  had  ever  seen."  She  had  a 
round  face,  a  bad  complexion,  a  pug  nose,  and  short  hair,  with  no 
head  at  all, — 1  mean  no  sense  in  her  head, — or  she  had  what  the 
French  would  call  iinc  tctc  a  Powers, 

She  always  acted  from  impulse,  never  from  reflection  ;  with  her 
there  was  never  a  moment's  pause  between  the  concei)tion  of  an 
idea  and  its  execution,  when  possible  ;  and  from  the  rapidity  of  her 
acts  and  the  serious  conse([uences  they  would  often  entail,  she  had 
become  the  terror,  the  dislike,  and  the  butt  of  the  household.  She 
was  by  no  means  a  fool  ;  she  was  always  saying  or  doing  some  ex- 
traordinary thing,  and  her  life  at  that  age  was  made  up  of  being 
scolded,  beaten,  or  laughed  at.  Her  eyes  were  not  large  and  beau- 
tiful, like  those  of  her  sister ;  but  when  she  was  excited  they  would 
sparkle  like  fire.  'Iheir  color  and  expression  always  depended  on 
Tick's  emotions:  they  were  the  only  redeeming  feature  in  that  little, 
ugly  face.  She  was  small,  thin,  and  quick  as  a  Hash.  She  had  long 
been  accustomed  to  come  head  first  down  the  steps,  and  the  family 
said,  that  it  was  at  the  foot  of  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  that  Tick  got  her 
ill-shaped  nose.  Tick  never  looked  tidy  ;  her  face,  and  hands  were 
almost  always  dirty,  and  her  hair  was  rarely  combed.  It  made  very 
little  difterence  to  her  whether  her  hair  was  combed  or  her  fiice 
washed  or  not,  since,  in  any  case,  everybody  who  saw  her  for  the 
first  lime  would  invariably  exclaim  :'  "  What  an  ugly  child  !  "  while 
the  first  sight  of  her  sister  would  elicit  expressions  of  admiration  for 
her  beauty. 

(Jeorgina  was  Tick's  half-sister  ;  Mr.  St.  John  was  not  her  father. 
He  had  adopted  her,  she  went  by  his  name,  and  called  him  father. 
The  lives  of  the  two  sisters  seemed  to  be  distinct.  Georgina  was 
treated  like  a  lady,  but  Tick  like  a  househoUl  drudge,  who  could  be 
kicked  and  cuffed  about  at  the  jjleasure  and  whim  of  each.  Tick's 
father  was  the  only  one,  who  never  spoke  unkindly  to  her ;  he  ne  er 
gave  her  a  blow.  Ceorgina  was  supposed  to  speak  the  truth  always, 
Tick  never. 

The  mother  loved  her  eldest  daughter,  yet  Georgina  feared  her 
mother's  ill-temper ;  for,  when  she  was  angry,  she  would  abuse  this 
daughter  with  iiarsh  words  and  threatening  looks ;  yet  she  never 
struck  her  but  once,  and  then  she  was  intoxicated. 

The  mother  and  eldest  daughter  were  more  like  friends,  than 
parent  and  child ;  for  the  mother  would  impart  to  her  all  her  secrets, 


DOMESTIC   SCENES. 


even  the  most  delicate.  Gcorgina  can  say  with  truth,  that  she  nevei 
was  a  cliikl.  They  would  sit  and  converse  together  tor  hours ;  yet 
they  seldom  spoke  to  Tick,  the  mother  never,  unless  it  was  to  scold 
h'  r  or  to  give  her  an  order.  Jiut  Tick  was  an  attentive  listener  to 
what  they  were  saying,  and  she  would  roll  it  over  and  over  in  her 
mind.  The  niotlier  would  ever  talk  against  the  father,  and  would 
make  threats  and  declare,  that  she  would  be  revenged,  and  (leorgina 
would  abuse  him  too.  Mr.  St.  John  loved  (ieorgina  better,  tiian  his 
own  child;  but  she  never  returned  his  alifection.  It  made  Tick  sad 
to  hear  them  abuse  her  father  ;  for  she  loved  hi  .,  although  she  knew, 
that  she  only  stood  second  in  his  heart.  She  was  only  too  grateful 
for  such  love  as  he  gave  her ;  it  was  the  only  ray  of  light,  that  feebly 
glimmered  for  her  in  that  wretched  home. 

Mr.  St.  John  and  his  wife  hated  each  other,  and  they  were  nearly 
always  quarrelling.  Neither  ever  went  to  church  ;  yet  the  mother 
would  freciuently  go  out  during  the  week,  no  one  ever  knew  where, 
nor  when  she  would  return.  It  would  always  enrage  the  husband 
to  find  his  wife  absent.  (Ieorgina  would  then  try  to  soften  him,  and 
pretend,  that  she  knew  where  her  mother  was,  and  would  say  every- 
th'ig  she  could  to  excuse  her  absence.  The  mother  usually  returned 
intoxica'cd,  and  a  dreadful  scene  would  ensue.  The  husband  would 
load  her  with  accusations,  of  whicii  Tick  did  not  understand  the 
meaning.  He  would  attempt  to  strike  her  ;  but  Oeorgina  would  go 
between  them  to  defenvi  her  mother,  an<l  her  presence  and  tears 
would  always  calm  the  infuriated  husband. 

During  those  scenes  Tick  would  get  into  a  corner  and  kneel 
behind  a  chair,  through  the  back  of  which  she  would  i)eei),  till  all  vv'as 
over ;  when  she  would  say  to  her  sister  :  "  Why  did  you  not  let  him 
strike  her  ?"  Then  her  sister  would  reproach  Tick  for  her  heartless- 
ness  towards  her  mother,  lint  Tick  could  not  feel  the  rei)roach  ;  for  she 
never  loved  her  mother.  She  had  always  feared  her.  Tick  cannot  re- 
member, that  her  mother  ever  kissed  her  ;  and  Tick  can  remember  ever 
since  she  was  three  years  old.  But  what  could  have  been  the  secret 
of  this  mother's  a\ersion  for  her  child,  which  seemed  to  amount 
almost  to  hatred.  She  would  beat  her,  as  though  she  were  gratifying 
some  secret  desire  for  vengeance.  Was  it  because  she  was  the  child 
of  her  hated  husband  ?  or  did  the  devil,  without  her  knowing  it,  in- 
spire her  to  pour  out  her  wrath  upon  the  child,  who  would  one  day  try 
to  undo  her  work  ? 


M 


tick's  companions. 


at  she  nevei 

■  lioiirs ;  yet 

\v;is  to  scolu 

0  listener  to 

over  in  her 

and   woiilcl 

ul  (leorgina 

ter,  than  his 

cle  Tick  sad 

^h  she  knew, 

too  grateful 

:,  that  feebly 


r  and  kneel 
|),  till  all  was 
not  let  him 
ler  heartless- 
oach ;  for  she 
ck  cannot  re- 
member ever 
n  the  secret 
1  to  amount 
;re  gratifying 
(Vas  the  child 
owing  it,  in- 
1  one  day  try 


Tick  had  a  hard  life  of  it  ;  yet  she  was  always  gay.  Five  minutes 
after  being  beaten,  she  could  laugh  as  merrily,  as  though  she  had  never 
been  struck  a  blow  in  her  life.  She  was  always  happy,  when  she  was 
alone,  either  in  the  house  or  in  the  streets,  or  when  lier  father  was 
at  home,  which  was  very  seldom.  She  had  few  companions  ;  and 
those  were  among  the  worst  children,  who  ran  the  streets.  No  one 
liked  her  mother,  and  consequently  the  neighbors  would  refuse  to 
let  their  children  go  with  her. 

When  at  home  alone,  she  would  amuse  herself  by  talking  to  her- 
self, to  the  chairs,  the  table-legs,  to  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  to  the 
footstool,  and  to  the  shovel  and  tongs,  making  believe  that  the  tongs 
were  a  boy  and  the  shovel  a  girl ;  and  she  would  name  each  object 
after  the  boys  or  girls  she  liked  or  hated  most.  On  the  former 
she  would  bestow  caresses  and  good  marks,  and  the  latter  she  would 
beat  with  the  poker.  The  furniture  was  thus  friglitfuUy  marred,  and 
sometimes  broken,  but  no  one  ever  knew  how  it  was  done,  and  the 
fault  was  generally  laid  to  the  servant.  This  was  one  of  Tick's  fa- 
vorite sports,  and  she  began  to  form  attachments  for  the  objects  in 
the  room,  as  though  they  were  living  beings.  They  were  the  only 
companions,  who  never  gave  her  pain,  and  always  brought  her  joy. 
She  loved  dearly,  too,  to  roam  by  herself  through  the  streets,  and 
talk  aloud  to  herself  without  being  noticed,  or  to  sit  on  the  curbstone 
and  swim  her  shoes  in  the  gutter. 

Mr.  St.  John  often  threatened  to  abandon  his  wife,  if  she  would  not 
reform,  and  he  would  have  done  so  long  before,  had  it  not  been  for 
his  attachment  to  her  child.  The  mother  took  advantage  of  this  ; 
for  whenever  he  would  threaten  to  leave  her,  she  would  always  say : 
"  15ut  my  child  remains  with  me  ;  "  and  the  afflicted  man  would  sub- 
mit to  stay  for  Georgina's  sake.  He  foresaw  too  well  the  inevitable 
doom,  which  awaited  her  if  he  abandoned  her  to  the  care  of  her 
mother. 

Tick  inherited  her  father's  qualities  and  disposition.  It  had  always 
been  a  trait  of  the  St.  Johns  to  have  a  remarkable  memory.  Tick 
had  inherited  that  quality  in  an  eminent  degree.  She  resembled  her 
father  in  everything  but  his  movements  ;  for  he  was  slow  and  languid 
in  his  gait,  whereas  Tick's  every  motion  was  as  quick  as  lightning. 
To  be  put  out  of  the  way,  she  had  been  sent  to  a  public  school  be- 
fore she  had  completed  her  fourth  year.  Here  nothing  escaped  her, 
that  she  could  take  in  with  her  eyes  and  ears  ;  but  her  restless  nature 
I* 


t  ; 


\{'\ 


lO 


HARD   KNOCKS. 


would  not  allow  her  to  apply  herself.  She  could  repeat  the  alphabet  as 
fast  as  her  sister,  although  she  did  not  know  one  letter  from  the  other. 

Georsiina  was  a  beautiful  reader — and  Tick  would  tease  her  until 
she  read  to  her  all  about  Polly  liodine's  trial.  Tick  had  heard  every 
one  talking  about  it,  and  she  was  much  interested  to  know,  if  she 
should  be  hanged  or  not.  I'or  Tick  her  father  used  to  buy  play- 
things, but  books  for  Georgina.  Their  mother,  too,  would  some- 
times buy  books  and  playthings  for  her  elder  daughter,  but  never 
anything  for  Tick.  Finally  about  this  time  Tick  became  a  sort  of 
confirmed  vagabond.  When  out  of  school  she  was  always  in  the 
street.  Her  mother  became  every  day  more  cruel  to  her,  and  Tick 
avoided  her  as  mucli  as  slie  could. 

The  cruel  treatment  she  received  never  cowed  Tick's  spirit. 
Georgina  seldom  dared  to  strike  her,  for  Tick  would  make  a  stout 
defence.  She  neither  loved,  hated,  envied,  nor  imitated  her  sister, 
and  in  spite  of  all  the  hard  knocks  she  received  she  always  chose  to 
be  herself  rather  than  anybody  else.  In  spite  of  her  mother's  cruelty 
Tick  pitied  that  motlier,  when  she  saw  her  afflicted  and  wretched 
and  in  tears ;  she  could  have  thrown  her  arms  around  her  neck 
and  kissed  her,  had  she  dared  to. 

ller  mother  would  often  send  the  child  for  beer,  and  it  was  with 
a  heavy  heart  that  she  brought  it ;  for  she  knew,  that  it  was  so  much 
fuel  for  the  drunken  wrath,  that  was  sure  to  burst  on  lier  own  devoted 
head.  Georgina  would  seldom  go  on  this  errand,  but  would  on  lier 
knees  implore  her  mother  to  do  without  it.  The  mother  would 
sometimes  yield,  but  would  oftener  become  impatient  and  threaten. 
Georgina,  too,  dreaded  her  mother  when  intoxicated,  and  tiien  she 
would  stay  near  to  Tick  and  talk  with  her. 

VV^hen  Tick  was  six  years  old  a  little  stranger  came  to  gladden 
the  father's  heart,  in  the  person  of  an  infant  son. 

From  Goerck  street  the  family  moved  to  a  house  out  of  which  they 
were  turned  by  the  landlord  on  account  of  the  mother's  cjuarrels 
with  the  neighbors.  Then  they  moved  into  a  rear  house,  whose  only 
yard  was  the  wretched  alley-way.  Tliey  had  not  been  there  long, 
when,  one  day,  the  father  came  liome  juljilant,  with  the  got)d  news 
that  his  uncle,  Samuel  St.  John,  of  New  Haven,  who  had  just  died, 
had  left  him  an  annuity,  and  also  a  small  one  for  each  of  his  children, 
when  they  should  come  of  age.  Tlie  next  day  he  took  Georgina, 
Tick,  and  his  son,  who  was  then  over  a  year  old,  and  went  to  an 


A    LEGACY. 


II 


alphabet  as 
n  tlic  other. 

c  her  until 
heard  every 
now,  if  slie 
)  buy  \i\ay- 

oiild  some- 

but  never 
:  a  sort  of 
•ays  in  tlie 
,  and  Tick 

ck's  si)irit. 
ke  a  stout 

her  sister, 
^'s  chose  to 
er'scrueUy 
1  wretched 

her   neck 

it  was  with 
IS  so  much 
vn  devoted 
lid  on  lier 
Iier  would 
1  threaten. 
;I  then  she 

0  gladden 

vhich  they 
s  cjuarrels 
hose  only 
here  long, 
;ood  news 
just  died, 
children, 
Cieorgina, 
nt  to  an 


office,  where  a  gentleman  handed  him  a  book.  He  placed  his  right 
hand  on  it,  and  swore,  that  the  three  children  were  his  own.  His 
love  for  Georgina  caused  him  to  take  a  false  oath,  and  it  was  that 
false  oath  that  sealed  his  doom.  His  family  had  already  shunned  him 
for  his  vices,  but  now  they  shrank  from  him  as  a  perjurer.  His 
crime  might  have  ever  remained  a  secret,  had  not  the  woman,  for 
whose  unfortunate  child  he  had  sacrificed  his  conscience,  spitefully 
betrayed  him. 

When  Mr.  St.  John  returned  home,  after  taking  this  oath,  he  began 
to  converse  with  his  wife.  The  usual  quarrel  ensued.  She  rose 
from  her  seat,  raised  her  hand,  and  swore,  that  she  would  be  re- 
venged. Her  heart  was  fdled  with  rage  and  hate.  She  loved  her 
elder  daughter,  but  her  hate  was  stronger  than  her  love.  She 
had  long  thirsted  for  a  full  revenge  for  all  the  real  or  imaginary 
wrongs  she  had  treasured  up  against  her  weak  and  erring  husband. 
At  last  that  long-wished-for  hour  had  come.  The  next  day  found 
tliis  woman  in  the  same  oflice,  where  her  husband  had  stood  the 
day  before.  She  laid  her  hand  on  that  little  IJible,  which  he  had  dese- 
crated for  her  child,  and  there  swore  that  her  husband  was  a  perjurer  ; 
that  only  the  two  younger  children  were  his,  and  that  her  eldest  child 
was  born  before  she  knew  him,  who  called  himself  its  father.  This  vol- 
untary declaration  on  the  part  of  a  woman,  who  claimed  to  be  his  wife, 
cast  doubts  even  upon  his  marriage  to  her,  which  his  pride  could  not 
permit  him  to  remove,  and  the  misguided  man,  who  but  a  few  hours 
before  was  revelling  in  bright  hoi)es  of  a  happy  future  for  his  children, 
and  for  the  child  he  had  taken  to  his  heart,  saw  those  hopes  forever 
extinguished.  He  humbly  acknowledged  his  fault,  but  declared,  that, 
in  forswearing  himself,  he  had  only  yielded  to  the  earnest  solicitations 
of  his  wife.  His  uncle  had  left  a  large  fortune,  providing  annuities 
for  the  five  brothers,  his  nei)hevvs,  and  their  descendants,  to  the  third 
generation.  The  estate  was  only  finally  to  be  divided,  when  the 
youngest  of  the  last  generation  should  have  reached  his  majority.  All 
this  was  devised  in  order,  that  the  St.  Johns  might  remain  for  at  least 
four  generations  without  wanting  for  bread.  Mr.  St.  John  swore,  that 
he  was  really  married  to  the  woman,  wiio  had  so  ruthlessly  betrayed 
him.  JJut  he  would  not  give  her  maiden  name.  As  he  had  once 
taken  a  false  oath,  the  executors  refused  to  receive  his  two  children 
as  heirs,  unless  he  should  produce  his  marriage  certificate,  signed  by 
responsible  witnesses.     This  he  refused  to  do  ;  for  it  must  bear  that 


I!  II 


12 


MARIA   MONK. 


n/omaiis  fiame.  No,  never  would  he  breathe  the  n.  le  of  her,  whom 
Providence,  as  a  just  punishment  for  his  sins,  had  ti.  <wn  across  his 
path.  And  thus  were  his  children  not  only  deprived  of  future  support 
and  left  to  an  inheritance  of  misery  and  danger,  but  they  were  brand- 
ed before  the  public  with  the  shameful  stigma  of  bastards. 

These  new  domestic  griefs  had  not  much  power  to  depress  the 
buoyant  spirits  of  Tick.  She  could  readily  forget  them  all  in  the  de- 
light of  an  occasional  .trip  with  her  father  across  the  water  to  Wil- 
liamsburg. She  would  stand  at  the  back  of  the  ferry-boat,  as  if  riveted 
to  the  deck,  watching  the  waves,  and  with  no  eyes  for  anything  else. 
Tick  was  fond  of  building  castles  in  the  air.  She  would  sometimes 
tie  her  mother's  apron  on  behind  her,  to  form  a  train,  and  would  make 
a  paper  crown  and  put  it  on  her  head  ;  and  in  that  guise  she  would 
promenade  up  and  down  the  room  or  the  alley,  imagining  that  she 
was  in  a  palace,  and  that  she  was  herself  a  queen  or  the  lady-love  of 
some  prince ;  and  she  would  sigh  to  be  big  enough  to  wear  long 
clothes,  believing,  that  when  that  day  came,  she  would  be  presented 
at  court,  and  the  courtiers  would  vie  to  do  her  homage.  For  her  sister 
read  aloud  stories  of  kings  and  queens  and  courtiers  and  palaces, 
and  her  father,  too,  would  tell  what  he  had  seen  in  England  ;  and  she 
fancied,  that  it  must  be  the  acme  of  all  happiness  to  go  to  court  and 
revel  in  its  pleasures. 


CHAPTER    II. 


MARIA    MONK.* 


One  day  Tick  and  her  mother  were*  alone,  when  two  rough-look- 
ing men  came  in.  The  three  entered  into  conversation.  At  last 
one  of  the  men  spoke  out  :  "  I  know  who  you  are,  you  are  Maria 
Mofi/c !"     It  was  the   first  time  Tick   had  ever  heard   tiiat  name. 

*  Kaily  in  the  year  ?836  a  hook  appeared  entitled,  "  AwKui,  Disclosures  ok 
Makia  Monk."  Tlie  liuok  was  a  tissue  of  cilunmics  affainst  the  inmates  of  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  or  IMack  Nunnery,  in  Montreal.  Maria  Monk  represented  herself  to 
he  an  escaped  nun  from  that  convent.  The  reader  will  learn  more  of  her  hook  iit 
the  course  of  this  history. 


MISERY. 


13 


Many  years  have  passed  since  then,  but  Tick  has  never  forgotten 
tlie  dread  feeling,  that  came  over  her  the  first  time  that  fatal  name 
fell  upon  her  ears.  Then  both  the  men  spoke  up  and  said  :  "  We 
know  you  are  Maria  Monk  ;  "  but  the  mother  denied  it.  The  next 
day  a  woman  came  in,  and  repeated  the  same  thing.  The  woman 
insisted,  that  Tick's  mother  should  permit  her  to  look  for  certain 
marks,  which,  she  said,  that  Maria  Monk  had  on  her  body ;  but 
Tick's  mother  refused  to  satisfy  this  person.  Frequently,  after  that, 
people  would  come  in  and  repeat  those  same  words.  After  a  while, 
Tick  would  hear  her  mother  acknowledge  to  one  woman,  that  she 
7c>as  Maria  Monk,  and  deny  it  to  another ;  but  at  last  she  ceased  to 
deny  it  to  any  one,  and  would  tell  everybody,  that  that  was  her  name. 
There  was  something  in  that  name  which  displeased  Tick,  yet  she 
could  not  tell  why.  Although  she  was  hardened  in  sin,  and  had  not 
much  fine  feelings  to  boast  of,  and  was  considered  the  bully  of  the 
alley,  yet  she  felt  ashamed,  that  her  mother's  name  should  be  Maria 
Monk.  She  could  not  have  felt  worse  if  it  had  been  Polly  Bodine. 
The  neighbors  became  so  troublesome  at  last,  by  constantly  coming 
in  and  bringing  ethers  to  see  Maria  Monk,  that  the  St.  Johns  were 
obliged  to  leave  the  neighborhood.  They  went  into  another  tene- 
ment-house, whence  they  were  soon  ejected  by  the  landlord  because 
of  Mrs.  St.  John's  (piarrels  with  her  neighbors. 

The  family  had  been  getting  more  and  more  miserable  ;  and  their 
home  now  was  so  wretched,  that  the  father  dreaded  to  come  near  it. 
Although  Mr.  St.  John  received  the  annuity  left  him  by  his  uncle, 
yet  it  did  not  seem  to  better  his  condition  ;  for  his  family  would  live 
for  a  few  days  sumptuously,  and  like  beggars  the  rest  of  the  year. 
They  had  long  since  done  without  a  servant.  Georgina,  who  was 
in  her  tenth  year,  did  all  the  indoor  work,  while  Tick  did  all  the 
errands.  The  only  trouble  about  sending  Tick  on  errands  was,  that 
they  could  never  depend  on  her.  If  she  met  an  organ-grinder,  she 
felt,  as  though  it  looked  mean  and  poor  to  pass  him  by  without  giv- 
ing him  something,  and  the  money,  that  was  intended  to  buy  a  loaf 
of  bread,  would  oftentimes  be  put  into  the  outstretched  paw  of  a 
monkey.  The  father  used  sometimes  to  give  (leorgina  the  money 
to  provide  for  the  tamily  ;  and  she  would  have  to  conceal  it  from  the 
mother,  lest  she  should  force  her  to  give  it  to  her  for  beer.  Often- 
times the  mother  would  go  off;  and  the  father  would  come  home  late 
and  find   the   three  little    children    sittinrr    disconsolate  around   the 


14 


A   NARROW   ESCAPE. 


stove,  the  youngest  crying  with  hunger.     The  girls,  too,  were  hungry, 
but  they  were  long  accustomed  to  that. 

One  day  the  mother  told  (ieorgina  to  get  the  baby  ready,  and 
that  they  all  should  go  down  by  the  river  lor  a  waJc.  Georgina  com- 
menced to  do  as  she  was  told  ;  but  suddenly  she  stopped,  and  seemed 
buried  in  thought.  She  felt,  that  something  was  wrong.  It  was  a 
strange  thing  for  her  mother  to  do  ;  for  siie  seldom  took  an\  of  her 
children  out  with  her.  (ieorgina  refused  to  go,  or  to  get  the  children 
ready.  A  loud  altercation  took  place  between  them.  The  next  day 
there  was  a  repetition  of  the  same  thing.  The  next  morning  'I'ick 
saw  her  father  and  sister  in  close  conversation  in  the  little  hall.  She 
listened,  and  heard  Georgina  hint  her  suspicions.  The  father  was 
convinced,  that  her  suspicions  were  too  well  founded  ;  for  his  wife  had 
often  threatened  to  drown  her  children.  Tick  heard  her  father  say, 
that  her  mother  intended  to  throw  all  her  children  into  the  river,  and 
then  jump  in  herself. 

Tick's  heart  was  drawn  towards  her  sister,  as  she  remembered  the 
scene  of  the  previous  day,  when  the  mother  had  upbraided  her,  and 
she  herself  had  joined  in,  and  begged  her  to  go  and  do  as  her  mother 
wished.  And  she  recalled  her  sister's  (^uiet  and  hrm  attitude,  and 
how  she  had  said  to  Tick  :  "  Afui you  shall  not  go  either  ;  "  and  Tick 
had  felt  like  striking  her  for  speaking  to  her  with  so  nuich  auth()rity. 

In  .spite  of  her  reckless  head,  Tick  appreciated  and  admired  the 
wisdom  and  fortitude  of  the  girl,  who,  in  fact,  was  not  three  years 
older  than  herself.  She  felt  that  it  was  time  for  her  too  to  he  a  wo- 
man ;  and  accordingly  she  made  u[)  her  n.md  lo  be  serious  and 
devote  herself  to  her  sister.  The  father  left,  and  so  diil  Tick.  She 
went  out  and  played  in  the  streets  all  day,  and  never  thought  for  a 
moment  of  what  might  be  going  on  in  the  house.  Thai  evening  she 
learned  from  the  conversation  of  her  father  and  sister,  that  the 
mother  had  sold  all  their  furniture  for  the  sum  of  three  dollars.  Slie 
was  then  out ;  and,  as  she  had  money,  they  were  ex[)ecting,  or  rather 
fearing,  that  she  might  come  in  at  any  moment  drunk. 

The  furniture  was  all  in  disorder  ;  some  of  it  had  already  been 
carried  away  ;  and  the  man  was  coining  for  the  rest  in  the  morning. 
Tick's  heart  was  desolate,  because  siie  missed  the  very  |)ieces  oi  fur- 
niture, that  she  most  loved  to  talk  to.  The  father  was  standing  ;  his 
little  boy  was  looking  up  into  his  face,  and  held  up  his  hands  for  his 
father  to  take  him  ;  but  the  father  was  so  intent  on  what  he  was  say- 


ABANDONED. 


15 


t'ere  hungry, 

/•  ready,  and 
:orgina  com- 

and  seemed 
g.  It  was  a 
V.  any  of  lier 

the  children 
"he  next  day 
icnning  'I'ick 

:  hall.  She 
le  father  was 

iiis  wife  had 
;r  father  say, 
he  river,  and 

LMubered  the 

led  her,  and 

s  her  mother 

attitude,  and 

;  "  and  Tick 

h  authority. 

admiretl   the 

three   years 

to  be   a  wo- 

^erious  and 

Tick.      She 

hought  for  a 

:  evening  she 

er,    thai   the 

dollars.    She 

ing,  or  rather 

vlready  been 
the  morning. 
)ieces  of  fur- 
itanding ;  his 
hands  for  his 
,  lie  was  say- 


ing to  Georgina,  that  he  did  not  ajjpear  to  notice  either  Tick  or  her 
brother.  "  1  shall  leave  her  this  very  night,"  said  he  ;  "  will  you 
come  with  me  ?"  At  those  words  Tick  made  a  spring,  and  clasped 
her  father's  side,  and  cried  out  :  "  O  father  !  let  us  go  beliDre  slie 
comes  l)ack."  (ieorgina  was  quite  as  ready  to  go  as  Tick  ;  for  the 
last  week's  experience  had  frightened  her  so,  that  she  was  only  too 
glad  to  get  away  from  such  a  mother.  Afr.  St.  John  took  his  family 
to  a  neighbor's,  who  sympathized  with  him,  knowing  the  dissolute 
habits  of  his  wife.  The  next  day,  towards  evening,  he  called  for 
them.  He  took  up  his  son  on  his  arm,  and  they  started  out, 
(Icorgina  on  one  side  and  Tick  on  the  other.  Tick  took  hold  of  her 
father's  hand  and  began  to  skip, — her  usual  gait.  They  had  hardly 
gone  a  dozen  stei)s  before  they  were  in  front  of  a  grog-shop.  Tick 
casually  looked  into  the  grog-shop,  as  she  skipped  along.  It  was  a 
hurried  glance  ;  but  long  enough  for  her  to  see  a  woman,  with  drunken 
gestures,  standing  bareheaded  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  back 
partly  turned  towards  the  street.  It  was  her  mother.  That  was  the 
last  time  I  ever'saw  A[akia  Monk. 


CHAPTER  III. 

TICK    IN    HER   NEW   IIOMK. — LONGS   AT   LAST   FOR   THE    OLD    ONE. 

Feelings  of  joy  and  sadness  alternately  flitted  through  ;iie,  as  I 
skipped  by  my  father's  side.  In  spite  of  my  giddiness  1  inquired  of 
myself  what  would  become  of  her.  I  asked  my  father  twice,  who 
would  take  care  of  /ler.  He  made  no  rei)ly,  but  continued  to  talk 
with  my  sister.  I  did  not  love  my  mother  ;  but  at  the  thought,  that 
she  had  been  abandoned  without  the  smallest  resource,  1  forgot  my 
wrongs.  If  my  father  had  only  said,  that  he  would  take  care  of  hei', 
I  could  have  given  myself  up  fully  to  the  joy  of  leaving  her  ;  but 
pity  prevented  my  being  hajjpy.  Poor  mother  !  if  she  had  known 
my  heart  at  that  moment,  I  am  sure,  that  she  would  have  repented 
of  all  her  unkindness  to  me.  I  tried  to  get  her  out  of  my  mind; 
but  she  was  ever  before  me,  just  as  I  had  seen  her  in  that  hurried 
glance.     Yet  1  would  not  have  uone  back  to  her  for  worlds. 


I 'I 


w 


i6 


ROAMING. 


I'-T.''^S 


i   i 


;  t 


We  stopped  before  a  beautiful  house  near  St.  John's  Park.  Father 
said  to  us,  that  it  was  there  we  were  to  Hve.  It  was  a  boarding- 
house  kept  by  a  lady  named  Beecher.  She  received  us  kindly,  Init 
at  once  exclaimed:  "Why,  I  never  would  iiave  taken  them  for 
sisters ! "  She  kissed  Georgina,  took  my  brotiier  on  her  knee, 
threw  a  glance  at  me,  slightly  frowned,  and  paid  me  no  more  atten- 
tion. My  father  recpiested  her  not  to  let  us  go  into  the  street,  lest 
we  should  meet  our  mother  or  some  of  her  acquaintances;  for  he 
was  afraid,  that  she  might  give  him  trouble  on  Georgina's  account; 
and  he  was  determined  to  do  everything  to  save  her. 

I  said  to  my  sister  several  times  :  "  I  wonder  how  s/ie  felt  when  she 
found  herself  abandoned."  (We  never  called  her  mother.)  Georgina 
would  answer :  "I  don't  know;  it  served  her  right ;  but  let  us  not 
speak  of  /ler."  And  in  a  few  weeks  all  mention  of  /ler  ceased  Let  wtien 
us. 

After  awhile  my  vagabond  propensities  came  back  in  full  force, 
and  I  longed  to  run  in  the  streets.  At  length  my  father  consented, 
that  I  might  walk  up  and  down  a  few  blocks  near  the  house.  I 
stretched  the  permission  by  roaming  about  the  streets  and  running 
in  the  park.  But  there  I  soon  began  to  feel  lonely  ;  for  the  nice 
children  kept  to  themselves,  and  I  felt  above  playing  with  vagrants, 
now  that  I  wore  fine  clothes.  But  they  must  have  had  an  instinct, 
which  told  them,  that  I  was  no  better  tlian  they  ;  for  they  would  look 
at  me  and  make  faces.  I  therefore  soon  avoided  the  park,  and  would 
pass  my  time  strolling  through  tiie  streets  and  getting  free  rides  on 
the  steps  of  omnibuses,  at  the  expense  of  an  occasional  lashing  from 
the  whip  of  tiie  driver. 

One  day  I  resented  vigorously  my  sister's  attempt  to  make  me 
wear  her  old  clothes.  Mrs.  Beecher  took  sides  with  her,  and  em- 
phasized her  view  of  the  matter  by  throwing  me  on  a  bed  and  giving 
me  a  good  beating.  She  left  me,  and  I  fell  asleep.  When  I  awoke 
1  immediately  wished  myself  back  again  in  the  old  wretched  home 
with  my  mother.  For  a  mother  can  do  many  cruel  things,  which 
a  child  will  readily  forgive  and  forget  ;  while  the  tithe  of  such  provo- 
cation from  a  stranger  may  engender  a  spirit  of  hatred,  which  only  a 
miracle  of  (iod's  grace  can  overcome. 

We  were  soon  put  to  board  in  the  country,  at  Flatbush  ;  where  my 
sister  engrossed  the  company  of  girls  of  equal  age  and  refinement 
with  herself,  leaving  me  to  myself  or  to  play  with   the  boys.     This 


SHOPPING. 


17 


f.  Father 
boarding- 
kindly,  hut 
them  for 
her  knee, 
nore  at  ten- 
street,  lest 
es;  for  he 
s  account ; 


was  a  new  and  delightful  experience  for  the  cramped  spirit  of  a  child, 
to  whom  the  most  familiar  landscape  hitherto  had  been  the  rear  view 
of  tenement-houses.  1  revelled  day  after  day  running  in  the  mea- 
dows, chasing  the  butterflies,  and  gathering  wild  llcwers  ;  and  some- 
times our  host  would  take  us  to  the  sea-shore,  where  my  freed  soul 
found  new  delights  in  the  shells,  the  sands,  and  the  waters. 


t  when  she 

Georgina 

let  us  not 

2d  Let waen 


CHAPTER    IV. 

TICK    GOKS    A    SHOPPING. — SHE  ASPIRKS    TO    BE    A     RAGPICKER. — HER 
ASPIRATIONS    KNOCKED    IN   THE    HEAD. 


full  force, 
consented, 
;  house.  I 
nd  running 
)r  the  nice 
h  vagrants, 
m  instinct, 
would  look 

and  would 
e  rides  on 
shing  from 

make  me 
r,  and  em- 
and  giving 
n  I  awoke 
ched  home 
ings,  which 
uch  provO' 
lich  only  a 

where  my 
refmement 
>oys.     This 


Shortly  after  our  return  to  the  city  the  cpiarrcls  between  my  sis- 
ter and  myself  became  so  frequent  and  so  violent,  that  our  father 
thought  well  to  separate  us,  and  placed  me  to  board  with  a  dress- 
maker. As  the  dressmaker  was  always  busy,  I  was  left  to  run  the 
streets  and  do  as  I  pleased.  Sometimes  I  would  pass  days  going 
from  one  shop  to  another,  asking  the  prices  of  things,  with,  perhaps, 
only  one  cent  in  my  pocket ;  and,  no  matter  what  the  price  of  an 
article  might  be,  if  I  wanted  it,  I  would  try  to  coax  the  shopkeeper 
to  give  it  to  me  for  the  amount  of  money  1  might  have.  At  last  two 
shoi)-women  took  such  a  dislike  to  me,  that  tliey  would  lie  in  wait  for 
nie,  and,  if  I  attempted  to  i)ass  beyond  the  sills,  of  their  shops,  they 
would  seize  me  and  give  me  a  good  shaking. 

One  day  I  had  only  a  penny,  and  I  wanted  to  buy  half  a  yard  of 
ribbon  for  my  doll.  I  entered  a  fancy  shop,  and  made  a  woman  un- 
roll all  the  narrow  ribbon  she  had  at  two  cents  a  yard.  When  I  had 
niade  my  choice,  I  said  I  would  take  half  ■x  yard,  at  the  same  time 
handing  her  the  penny.  She  took  it,  threw  it  out  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  told  me  to  go  after  it  and  never  dare  to  come  into  her  siiop 
again.  The  very  same  day  I  saw  in  a  shop  window  a  little  bottle  of 
perfumery,  which  I  coveted  very  much.  I  eagerly  in(]uired  the 
price.  It  was  twelve  cents ;  and  I  had  only  one.  I  l)egged  the 
woman  to  give  it  to  me  for  that.  She  sarcastically  advised  me  to 
wait,  till  I  had  more  to  put  with  it.  On  my  way  home  I  met  a  rag- 
1    picker,  and  as  .  had  always  been  told,  that  all  ragpickers  were  rich, 


'     ! 


i8 


HOPES   OF   FORTUNE. 


ii'l. 


I  took  it  into  my  head  that  I  should  go  at  once  to  work,  and  make  a 
fortune  at  ragpicking  ;  and  that  then  I  could  buy  what  I  pleased. 

]'.y  the  time  I  got  home,  I  found,  that  it  was  too  late  to  begin 
that  da}-,  as  it  was  nearly  dusk.  The  next  morning,  after  breakfast, 
while  the  dressmaker  was  clearing  away  the  table,  1  went  into  the 
kitchen,  took  the  market-basket  and  the  poker,  and  started  out.  i!ut 
I  wandered  through  street  after  street,  in  the  broiling  sun,  without  tiiul- 
ing  a  rag,  or  so  much  as  a  piece  of  paper.  At  last  I  was  tired  ;  for  i 
found  the  basket  and  poker  a  load  in  themselves ;  and  I  wheeled 
about  and  started  for  home.  I  had  nearly  reached  the  house,  wh-^n  I 
met  a  ragi)icker  with  a  great  lot  of  rags  in  a  basket  fastened  to  her 
back.  I  instantly  accosted  her  and  cried  out :  "  Old  woman,  tell  me 
where  you  found  all  those  rags  ?  1  have  been  hunting  through  the 
streets  ever  since  breakfast,  and  have  not  found  one  yet."  The  old  wo- 
man passed  on  in  contemptuous  silence  ;  but  1  ran  until  I  got  directly 
in  front  of  her,  and  said,  this  time  rather  coaxingly  :  "Oh,  Mrs.  Rag- 
picker, won't  you  p-1-e-a-s-e  tell  me  where  you  found  all  those  rags?" 
At  that  the  ragpicker  assumed  an  infuriated  mien,  particularly  when 
her  eyes  fell  on  my  basket  and  poker ;  and,  before  1  had  a  chance  to 
divine  what  was  coming,  she  struck  me  a  blow  on  the  head  w  ith  her 
hook,  and  then  started  off  on  a  half  run.  As  1  went  into  the  house 
with  my  hand  pressed  upon  my  smarting  head,  I  met  the  dressmaker. 
The  moment  she  saw  me  with  her  market-basket  and  poker,  she  llew 
into  a  rage,  seized  both  of  the  articles,  and  exclaiming :  "  You  little 
imp  ! "  began  to  beat  me  over  the  shoulders  with  the  ])oker,  telling 
me  at  the  same  time,  in  a  screaming  voice,  how  1  had  made  her  lose 
all  the  morning  hunting  through  the  house  for  her  market-basket 
and  poker. 

J'y  such  nide  blows  were  dashed  my  first  bright  hopes  of  fortune  ! 

My  father  and  sister  seldom  came  to  see  me  ;  and,  if  my  sister 
stayed  over  an  hour,  our  interview  would  always  end  in  a  quarrel. 

My  father  had  often  spoken  to  us  of  a  beautifid  country, — the  land 
where  his  aunt  Huldah  lived  ; — and  he  would  tell  us  how  kind  she 
had  ever  been  to  him,  never  refusing  him  the  aid  he  asked  of  her. 
One  day  he  told  us,  that  this  aunt  had  proposed,  if  he  would  let  her 
have  his  little  son,  to  bring  him  up  and  leave  to  him  all  she  had 
He  was  ever  talking  of  that  country,  and  promising  to  take  us  there; 
and  he  would  sometimes  add,  that  it  would  be  a  very  secure  place, 
in  which  to  hide  us  from  our  mothei*.     Georgina  and  myself,  who 


work,  and  make  a 
what  I  pleased. 

too  late  to  begin 
ig,  after  breakfast, 
,  1  went   into   the 
d  started  out.     J  kit 
g  sun,  without  fuul- 
t  I  was  tired  ;  for  1 
es  ;  and  I  wheeled 
1  the  house,  wh'^n  I 
:et  fastened  to  h^T 
31d  woman,  tell  me 
unting  through  the 
-  yet."    The  old  wo- 
1  until  1  got  directly 
y  :  "Oh,  Mrs.  Rag- 
md  all  those  rags  ?  " 
n,  particularly  when 
e  I  had  a  chance  to 
3n  the  head  w  ith  her 
went  into  the  house 
met  the  dressmaker, 
and  poker,  she  Hew 
aiming :  "  You  little 
th  the  jioker,  telling 
1  had  made  her  lose 
r  her  market-basket 

It  hopes  of  fortune  ! 
le  ;  and,  if  my  sister 
;  end  in  a  (quarrel. 
i\  country, — the  land 
tell  us  how  kind  she 
aid  he  asked  of  her. 
1,  if  he  would  let  her 
e  to  him  all  she  had. 
;ing  to  take  us  there; 
:  a  very  secure  place, 
;ina  and  myself,  who 


AUNT   HULDAH. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


19 


rarely  agreed  on  any  point,  would  beg  hiin  in  unison  to  take  us  to 
that  country,  lie  was  always  shifting  us  about,  through  constant 
dread  ot"  our  inotlier.  In  the  course  of  these  migrations  we  found 
ourselves  again  at  l''latbush  ;  wiien  our  father  came  for  us  one  day, 
and  told  us,  that  he  had  decided  to  take  us  to  Amenia,  the  country 
he  loved  so  much,  and  where  he  had  i)assed  his  ha])|)iest  days. 

We  returned  to  i\ew  York  ;  where  our  father  bought  us  several 
handsome  suits  of  clothes,  made  of  the  riciiest  and  finest  material ; 
so  tliat  any  one,  who  saw  us,  as  we  started  for  Amenia,  might  have 
believed,  tiiat  we  were  spoiled  children  of  fortune.  As  the  boat 
moved  slowly  away  from  the  dock,  I  gladly  bade  New  York  good- 
by,  little  thinking  how  that  journey  was  big  with  my  destiny.  We 
landed  at  I'oughkeepsie  ;  and  early  the  next  morning  we  started  for 
Aunt  Huldah's  in  South  Amenia,  Dutchess  Co.,  N.  Y.  ;  where  we 
arrived  about  noon,  after  a  drive  of  twenty-five  miles.  Our  father 
told  us  never  to  mention  our  mother's  name,  and  if  any  one  should 
ever  siieak  to  us  about  her,  to  say,  that  she  was  dead,  that  she  had 
died  long  ago,  and  that  we  had  forgotten  her. 


CHAPTER  V, 

My  AUNTS. — A  STURDY  METHODIST. — THE    HIGHLANDS    OF   DUTCHESS. 

AiNT  HuLDAH  was  near  to  her  seventieth  year.  She  had  never 
been  married,  and  had  always  regarded  our  father  as  her  son.  She 
received  us  all  as  affectionately,  as  if  we  were  her  children. 

Our  fadier  was  noted  for  his  fondness  for  children,  and  for  making 
great  sacrifices  to  aid  any  unfortunate  child,  that  might  cross  his 
path.  Years  before  the  time  1  am  describing,  he  had  brought  to 
Aunt  Huldah  a  little  orphan  girl,  whom  he  prevailed  upon  her  to 
adopt. 

This  child  had  grown  to  be  a  woman,  and  had  married,  and  resided 
about  two  miles  from  our  aunt's  house.  My  father  decided  to  place 
nu;  with  her,  to  prcv'ent  the  usual  quarrels  with  my  sister.  He 
counted  on  this  woman's  gratitude,  and  thought  she  would  be  a 
mother  to  his  child.     liut  she  had  no  sooner  seen  me  fondling  my 


ao 


WINTER   VIHWS. 


ii 


father,  and  seen  my  trunk  iinjiacked,  than  she  became  envious  and 
jealous,  and  began  to  complain,  that  my  fatiier  had  never  bought  hir 
as  many  nice  things.  We  had  hardly  been  together  a  day  before  we 
hated  each  other. 

She  was  a  spoiled  child.  Aunt  Hiddah  had  always  indulged  her ; 
and  she  was  the  person  least  fitted  to  have  the  care  of  a  wilful  little 
creature  like  myself  She  was  poor,  miserly,  la/y,  and  cruel.  She 
treated  me  as  badly,  as  my  mother  had  done ;  even  worse  ;  for  she 
used  to  beat  me  .with  a  cane,  whereas  my  mother  used  only  her 
hands. 

I  went  there  in  the  autumn  ;  and  I  passed  the  long  winter,  suffering 
with  hunger  and  cold,  and  longing  for  my  father's  return.  The  view 
from  the  house  was  bleak  and  desolate.  l*"or  hours  I  would  sit  at 
the  window,  which  looked  out  on  that  dreary  landscape,  hoping  to 
see  my  father  enter  the  gate  ;  and  I  would  often  ask  the  woman  : 
when  she  thought  he  would  come.  This  provoked  her,  and  she 
would  answer,  that  she  hoped  he  would  come  soon,  that  she  might  let 
him  know  what  an  imp  I  was. 

One  day  I  went  to  see  my  sister.  Aunt  Huldah  ran  to  the  gate  to 
receive  me ;  but  before  she  could  open  it,  1  began  to  tell  her  how 
cruelly  this  woman  treated  me.  Aunt  Huldah,  who  was  fond  of  her 
adopted  daughter,  took  instantly  a  bitter  dislike  to  me  ;  for  she  did 
not  believe,  that  what  I  said  could  be  true.  In  this  opinion  my  sister 
confirmed  her,  by  declaring  that  I  had  never  been  known  to  s))eak 
the  truth. 

A  few  days  afterwards  Aunt  Huldah  sent  for  my  torturer,  and  told 
her  what  I  had  said.  She  denied  it  all,  and  Aunt  Huldah's  bad 
opinion  of  me  was  irrevocably  tixed.  The  woman  came  home,  and, 
from  that  time  her  treatment  of  me  was  simi^ly  inhuman. 

I  would  often  wonder  what  my  father  had  ever  seen  in  that  lantl 
to  love. 

At  last  summer  came,  and  one  bright  morning  brought  my  father. 
The  woman  complained  of  me,  and  would  give  me  no  opportunity 
to  speak  with  him  alone.  When  they  had  all  retired,  I  arose  and 
crept  softly  to  my  father's  bed.  He  took  me  in  his  arms ;  I  nestled 
in  his  bosom,  and  began  to  weep.  He  whispered  to  me  to  "  hush," 
for  fear  the  woman  might  hear  me.  I  soon  fell  asleep,  and  in  the 
morning  I  told  him  all.     He  kissed  me,  but  made  no  reply. 

The  next  day  my  father  came  with  a  Mr.  Clark,  one  of  his  cousins, 


,.'./ 


me  envious  and 
ever  boiiglit  lur 
a  (lay  before  wo 

■s  indulgecl  hcv  ; 
jf  a  wilful  little 
uul  cruel.  SIk- 
worse  ;  for  she 
■  used  only  her 

winter,  sufferint,' 
;urn.  'I'he  view 
>  I  would  sit  at 
cape,  hoping  to 
sk  the  woman  : 
;d  her,  and  she 
lat  she  might  let 

an  to  the  gate  to 
I  to  tell  her  how 
was  fond  of  her 
me  ;  for  she  did 
)pinion  my  sister 
known  to  s|)eak 

orturer,  and  told 

It   Huldah's  bad 

;ame  home,  and, 

nan. 

seen  in  that  land 


ought  my  father. 
;  no  opportunity 
red,  I  arose  and 
arms ;  I  nestled 
)  me  to  "  hush," 
sleep,  and  in  the 
)  reply. 
:ie  of  his  cousins, 


by  c 
that 
1 
liiato 
aiul 


SUMMER   VIEWS. 


21 


1 


c 
b 


.J 


ll         - 


and  told  nie  that  he  would  take  me  where  I  would  have  a  good  home. 
It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  the  middle  of  June,  1847.  I  sat  on  my 
fatlier's  knee  as  we  drove  alonj^.  We  passed  towards  the  south 
tlu-ough  a  beautiful  fertile  valley,  bordered  on  the  east  and  west  by 
ranges  of  hills  known  as  the  "  Highlands  of  Dutchess."  At  the  foot 
of  the  western  slope  ilows  a  narrow,  limpid  stream,  which  still  retains 
its  Indian  name  of  the  Weebatuc.  We  did  not  drive  far,  before  we 
made  an  abrupt  turn  to  the  east,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  we  were 
ascending  a  hill.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  if  I  had  just  seen  the  country 
for  the  first  time.  I  could  not  help  exclaiming  all  along  the  way : 
"  How  beautiful !  "  I  had  been  in  the  country  eight  months,  and  had 
done  nothing  but  weep  and  mourn  by  the  side  of  that  cruel  woman. 
lUit  now  I  was  once  more  with  my  father.  P^very  few  moments  I 
would  throw  my  arms  around  his  neck  and  make  him  promise  me, 
that  he  would  never  take  me  back  to  that  home  again.  I  was 
hai)i)y,  and  everything  around  me  seemed  to  smile  and  rejoice  with 
me. 

As  we  ascended  the  hill,  we  could  sec  birds  of  nearly  every  note 
and  hue  fluttering  along  the  rustic  fences,  which  lined  the  road  ;  and 
on  either  side  were  flocks  of  sheep  grazing,  while  their  lambs  were 
ski|)ping  and  playing  in  the  noontide  sun.  When  we  reached  the 
summit  of  this  hill,  a  most  beautif"ul  landscape  s[)read  itself  on  every 
side,  and  a  delicious  little  vale  lay  at  our  feet,  with  but  one  solitary 
humble  dwelling,  occupied  by  one  of  my  father's  cousins.  In  passing 
through  this  cliarming  valley  we  halted  for  a  tew  moments  at  the  iiouse, 
and  we  were  soon  surrounded  by  merry  children,  who  fairly  made  the 
hills  ring  with  their  hearty  welcome.  We  had  still  another  long  hill 
to  climb,  before  we  could  reach  my  future  home.  The  left  of  this 
steep  was  bordered  by  a  long  ledge  of  rocks,  out  of  which  sprung  a 
lofty  chestnut  grove.  On  the  right  could  be  seen,  for  miles,  the  sur- 
rouiuling  country  ;  and,  as  we  advanced,  the  scenery  apjjeared  ever 
to  grow  more  beautiful.  A  little  further,  and  we  came  to  an  open 
level  space,  which  was  hemmed  in  by  forests  and  hills.  To  the  left 
stood  a  little  white  cottage,  with  rose-bushes  at  the  door,  and  shaded 
by  cherry-trees  laden  with  fruit.  It  was  there,  that  I  was  to  find 
that  "good  home,"  which  my  father  had  promised  me. 

I  ran  into  the  hou^-  ■,  and  was  most  kindly  welcomed  by  its  in- 
mates. It  was  neatly  furnished,  and  everything  breathed  comfort 
and  happiness.      The  family  consisted  of  Mr.  Clark  and  his  wife, 


22 


THE   NEIGHBORHOOD. 


and  Aunt  I.avinia,  who  was  sister  to  my  father's  mother.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Clark  liad  passed  the  middle  age,  and  were  known  throughout 
the  country  as  Uncle  Horace  and  Aunt  Mercy.  Tiiey  owned  a  large 
farm,  and  were  in  comfortable  circumstances.  They  made  nnich  ado 
over  me,  fondled  and  caressed  me,  and  laughed  at  everything  I  said. 
They  examined  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  said,  that  I  was  the  very 
image  of  the  St.  Johns  ;  that  my  face  was  the  image  of  my  father's 
mother's,  and  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  my  cpiick  mode  of 
sj)eaking,  and  a  nervous  movement  of  my  head,  when  trying  to  bring 
out  my  thoughts,  showed  a  most  striking  family  likeness.  The  next 
day  my  father  left  for  New  York.  He  took  my  sister  with  him,  but 
lefc  my  brother  with  Aunt  Huldah. 

Our  nearest  neighbors  were  a  poor  tamily,  whom  I  will  designate 
as  the  Dot  family.  Tiie  wife  was  a  weaver,  and  the  husband  a 
mason.  My  Uncle  Orin's  house  was  in  sight  of  our  cottage  ;  he  was 
Uncle  Horace's  brother. 

[  was  sent  immediately  to  school.  The  school-house  was  situated 
tlown  in  the  valley,  about  a  mile  and  a  (puirter  from  my  home,  and 
very  near  Aunt  Huldah's. 

Without  any  cause  whatever  I  disliked  my  Aunt  AFercy  at  first 
sight ;  but  she  soon  won  me  by  her  kind  and  tender  devotion  to  me. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  received  a  mother's  care,  and  I  at 
once  changed  and  became  one  of  the  best  children  in  the  place. 

The  Clarks  were  all  high-toned  and  devout.  Uncle  Horace  was 
a  plain,  honest,  blunt-spoken  man.  He  tried  hard  to  live  up  to  the 
golden  rule,  of  doing  unto  others,  as  he  would  have  them  do  to  him. 
He  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  as  expounded 
by  John  Wesley.  He  was  devoted  to  his  churcii,  and  thoroughly 
believed,  that  the  Metiiodists  alone  possessed  the  [)erfect  knowledge 
of  the  way  to  salvation.  He  had  strong  i)rejudices  ;;gainst  Catholics  ; 
he  was  always  abusing  them  ;  his  house  was  well  sui)i)lied  with  books 
breathing  hostility  against  them ;  and  he  believed  every  absurd  state- 
ment he  had  read  concerning  them.  Had  he  got  his  knowledge  of 
Christianity  in  the  same  manner,  as  he  had  that  of  Catholicity,  namely, 
from  its  deadly  enemies,  he  would  liave  denounced  Jesus  Christ  with 
equal  vigor.  Hut  he  had  never  read  any  infidel  author,  nor  any  can- 
did work  on  tiie  history  of  the  Catholic  C'hurch,  nor  would  he  allow 
any  book  or  journal  under  his  roof,  that  would  speak  in  oppo.sitiou  to 
the  teachings  of  Wesley. 


MY   uncle's   views. 


23 


\Vhenever  he  could  find  no  other  epithet  in  the  dictionary  sufficient- 
ly strong  to  express  his  contempt  of  some  dishonorable  or  vicious 
person,  he  would  call  him  a  Jesuit  ;  and  never  yet  did  Jesuit  cling 
with  greater  love  to  the  memory  of  St.  Ignatius,  than  did  my  uncle 
Horace  to  the  memory  of  the  foimder  of  the  ATethodists  ;  for  he  had 
all  the  tenacity  and  will  of  a  true  follower  of  St.  Ignatius.  He  be- 
lieved all  Catholics  to  be  followers  of  Antichrist,  and  regarded  the 
Pope  as  if  he  were  the  very  Devil  himself.  He  couUl  not  speak  of 
Catholics  without  becoming  enraged,  and,  with  clenched  fist  and  out- 
stretched arm,  would  frequently  exclaim  :  "  Hang  all  the  priests  and 
their  Pope  !  To  think  of  thus  deluding  so  many  millions  of  souls  into 
abandoning  Christ  and  worshiiijiing  a  woman  ! "  Had  he  not  read 
it  ?  And  he  l)elieved  sincerely  all,  that  he  said  ;  and  his  straightfor- 
ward, ardent  nature  was  so  opposed  to  iiypocrisy  and  cratt,  that  he 
would  have  been  willing  to  establish  an  Inquisition  to  try  and  hang 
every  man,  who  preached  allegiance  to  the  see  of  Rome, 

All  these  erroneous  convictions,  of  which  his  mind  had  become  the 
prey,  were  the  result  of  a  false  system  of  education,  but  too  frequent- 
ly countenanced  and  practised  by  the  so-called  Reformers.  He  had 
l)robably  never  read  in  his  life  one  syllable  of  truth  in  regard  to  the 
Catholic  religion.  He  had  only  read  the  writings  of  those,  who  had 
been  educated  like  himself,  and  who  have  ever  confounded  the 
abuses,  which  have  crept  into  the  church,  with  its  sacred  doctrines. 

He  could  tell  you  all  about  its  power,  its  magnitude,  and  its 
strength  ;  but  he  did  not  know,  that  it  owed  the  height  of  grandeur,  Lo 
which  it  had  risen,  only  to  its  moral  teaching  and  the  practice  of  its 
doctrines.  He  did  not  rcHect  how  that  very  power  and  influence,  to 
'vhich  the  holiness  of  its  doctrines  and  the  heroism  of  its  charity  had 
raised  it,  made  it  naturally  an  object  of  temjjtation  to  the  votaries  of 
avarice  and  ambition,  who  enrolled  themselves  under  its  standard 
and  affected  to  be  its  disciples,  only  to  use  the  holy  garments 
of  religion,  as  a  cloak,  to  cover  their  cravings  for  fortune  and  prefer- 
ment. 

LJncle  Horace  could  tell  all  about  the  infamies  practised  by  the 
Inciuisition  ;  for  he  believed  all,  that  was  said  concerning  it.  He 
shuddered  at  the  name,  and  well  lie  might ;  but  little  did  this  honest 
republican  undeisland,  that  it  was  rapacious  sovereigns,  who  had  made 
It  their  forced  instrument  to  ritl  themselves  of  those  who  resisted 
their  despotism  ;  that  men,  who  were  too  cowardly  to  coriuuit  crime.s 


24 


MOUE  OF  MY  UNCLE  S  VIEWS. 


■», .. 


1:     i 

'I     1 


ojjenly  in  the  name  of  tlie  State,  perpetrated  them  with  impunity  in 
the  name  of  religion  ;  and  that,  in  those  times  of  religious  zeal,  per- 
secution was  as  common  among  all  fanatical  sects,  as  it  was  among 
the  Catholics.  He  probably  did  not  rellect,  that  his  very  vehemeuf.c 
showed,  that  he  would  have  been  no  bad  material  himself,  oat  of 
which  to  make  a  iiersecutor. 

The  good  man  knew  that  the  Catholics  believed  in  the  infallibility 
of  the  Pope.  This,  he  would  say,  capped  the  climax  of  their  idolatry 
and  superstition.  His  upright  nature  rebelled  at  the  thought,  and 
how  could  it  be  otiierwise  ;  for  he  had  been  taught  by  his  favorite 
authors,  that  infallibility  meant  im])eccability,  and,  as  a  man  of  good 
common  sense,  he  knew  that  no  man  living  is  exempt  from  tem[)ta- 
tion  and  the  possibility  of  sin.  It  had  never  entered  his  head,  that 
Catholics  derived  that  belief  directly  from  the  i)romises  of  Christ  to 
His  apostles,  and  that  by  it  they  meant  nothing  more  than  that  God 
would  never  aliandon  His  church,  but,  by  the  protection  of  the  Holy 
Chost,  would  always  watch  over  it,  and  prevent  error  from  creeping 
into  its  doctrines.  What  he  had  heard  and  read,  in  distorted  and 
calumnious  histories  of  the  popes,  was  sufficient  proof  to  him  of  the 
fallacy  of  such  a  doctrine  ;  for  he  had  no  conception  of  tiie  l)elief  of 
Catholics,  that  during  so  many  centuries,  i\o  matter  what  inay  have 
been  the  misdeeds  of  those,  whom  Christ  had  chosen  to  be  the  head 
of  the  church,  there  never  was  a  pope,  who  ever  dared  to  lay  a  sac- 
rilegious hand  on  the  doctrines  handed  down  by  Jesus  Christ  and  his 
apostles  ;  and  the  good  man  would  have  wondered  irxleed,  if  he 
could  have  heard  Catliolics  admit,  at  least  for  argument's  sake,  the 
worst,  that  might  be  said  against  the  characters  of  poi)es  and  prelates  ; 
and  then  derive  from  the  very  weaknesses  of  the  human  side  of  the 
church  all  the  more  forcible  argument  for  the  divinity  of  her  doc- 
trines and  her  constitution,  that  have  withstood  unimpaired  the 
strain  of  so  much,  that  is  human. 

Uncle  Horace  was  a  sincerely  upright  man,  and  his  convictions 
were  the  natural  result  of  never  having  read  a  word  of  truth  in 
regard  to  the  Catholic  church.  He  was  to  l.)e  pitied  for  his  ignor- 
ance, but  not  to  be  despised  ;  for  he  was  sincere,  he  believed  in  liis 
heart  diat  he  was  right,  and  he  was  ever  an  honest  man.  His  wife 
also  tried  to  be  a  good  Christian.  She  jjossessed  a  character  with 
many  excellent  traits ;  but  its  e([uanimity  was  sometimes  disturbed 
Dy  a  (piick    temper,  which  she  was   too  proud  to   conceal   and  too 


THE   WILD    WOODS. 


25 


h  impunity  in 
ious  zeal,  per- 
il was  among 
:r\'  veliemence 
imsclf,  out  of 

he  infallibility 
their  idolatry 
thought,  and 
ly  his  favorite 
man  of  good 
from   temjjta- 
his  head,  that 
i  of  Christ  to 
lan  that  God 
1  of  the  Holy 
from  creejung 
distorted  and 
to  him  of  the 
■  the  belief  of 
hat  may  have 
3  be  the  head 
to  lay  a  sac- 
Christ  and  his 
r.deed,    if    he 
nt's  sake,  the 
and  prelates  ; 
a  side  of  the 
/  of  her  doc- 
impaired    the 

s  convictions 
1  of  truth  in 
or  his  ignor- 
lieved  in  liis 
111.  His  wife 
haracter  with 
les  distmbed 
ceal   and  loo 


"3 


weak  to  control.  She  was  strictly  moral,  and  had  an  instinctive  ha- 
trfd  of  vice. 

My  uncle  and  aunt  had  never  had  any  children,  and  it  was  for 
this  reason,  that  my  coming  was  hailed  with  so  much  joy.  I  was 
sent  regularly  to  school,  to  church,  and  to  Sunday-school.  I  tried 
to  be  good,  and  had  ceased  to  tell  falsehoods.  I  liked  everybody 
and  tried  hard  to  please  everybody.  I  was  never  ]Mmished,  and 
seldom  reproved.  As  my  father  paid  for  my  board.  Aunt  Mercy's 
conscientiousness  would  not  permit  me  to  render  her  the  slightest 
assistance  in  her  work  ;  and,  when  I  offered  to  do  so,  she  would  always 
tell  me  to  go  and  play.  When  I  would  go  to  romp  in  the  woods, 
she  would  dress  me  up  in  old  clothes,  so  that  I  could  soil  and 
tear  them  as  much  as  I  liked ;  and  she  never  scolded  me  when  I 
returned.  Sometimes  she  would  give  me  a  lunch,  and  I  would 
remain  away  nearly  the  whole  day.  P>erything  was  peace  and 
comtort  in  that  little  mountain  home,  and  evei  thing  breathed  joy 
and  hapi)iness  for  me  in  the  woods  and  hills  that  surrounded  it. 

During  the  harvest  months  there  was  vacation,  and  I  was  left  to 
run  in  the  woods,  and  do  as  I  pleased.  One  day  I  was  roving  by 
myself,  and  I  sat  down  to  rest  on  a  ledge  of  rocks  which  overlooked 
a  broad  landscape. 

I  was  then  in  my  tenth  year,  and  had  never  had  a  strong  attach- 
ment for  anything  or  anybody  but  my  father.  I  remember  well  this 
day  :  1  had  been  sitting  for  a  long  while,  watching  the  shadows 
which  one  hill  would  cast  on  another ;  wondering  at  the  blue  haze 
that  floated  around  the  hill-to])s,  enveloping  them  in  a  mysterious 
veil ;  and  admiring  the  varied  shades  of  green,  that  draped  the  sur- 
rounding scene.  A  sensation  of  ineffable  S'veetness  came  over  me, 
that  thrilled  my  bosom  with  delight.  I  began  to  jump  about,  spring- 
ing tVoiii  rock  to  rock,  catching  hold  of  the  drooping  branches  of  the 
trees,  and  kissing  their  leaves,  until  I  was  out  of  breath.  I  then 
threw  myself  upon  a  rock  and  pressed  my  cheek  against  the  moss, 
which  I  fondled  with  my  hands.  I  began  to  weep,  and  then  laughed 
merrily,  that  I  should  weep  ;  for  I  had  never  been  so  happy.  I 
started  up,  and  climbed  the  mountain  ;  and,  when  I  had  reached  its 
top,  I  began  to  sing,  with  all  my  might,  an  Indian  song,  which  my 
aunt  had  taught  me.  I  soon  ran  down  the  steej)  again,  my  feet 
hardly  touching  the  ground.  I  would  try  to  fancy,  that  my  mother 
was  pursuing  me; — a  tavorite  sport  I  had  invented  to  while  the  time 


26 


A   CHILD   OF  NATURE. 


!   ; 


when  rambling  alone.  When  I  reached  the  level.  I  still  ran  with  all 
my  might,  and  jumped  across  a  little  brook,  and  began  to  i)ant  tor 
breath,  as  thougli  i  were  really  hunted  down,  I  got  so  in  earnest, 
that  1  felt  my  mother's  hand  seizing  me.  I  sprang  over  the  fences, 
and  kept  up  the  ilight,  until  I  reached  the  house  ;  where  I  met  my 
aunt,  who  threw  her  arms  about  me  ;  and  I  wrapt  myself  in  her 
skirts.  I  was  so  out  of  breath,  that  I  could  scarcely  s[)eak.  'J  ^ 
hrst  words  I  uttered  were  :  "  No  one  can  come  here  and  take  me 
away,  I  hope  ?  "  She  kissed  me  and  said  :  "  No,  no,  my  child,  your 
father  said,  that  you  could  always  live  with  us ;  we  have  no  little 
girl,  and  you  shall  be  ours." 

Nearly  every  day  she  would  let  me  go.  I  would  hardly  leave  the 
house,  before  my  bosom  would  begin  to  glow,  and  I  would  pass  the 
livelong  day  climbing  over  the  rocks,  swinging  in  the  wild  grai>e- 
vines,  and  gathering  berries  or  woodland  flowers.  At  twilight,  after 
tea,  I  would  go  down  the  road  to  the  chestnut  grove,  among  the 
rocks  by  the  hill-side,  to  hear  the  katydids  sing.  Sometimes  my  aunt 
would  have  to  drag  me  to  bed,  when  1  would  have  sat  up  all  night 
on  the  sill  of  the  door,  listening  to  the  cricket,  that  sang  under  the 
stone  stej). 

Far  in  the  woods  I  had  discovered  a  small  stream,  which  rippled 
down  a  hillside ;  and  near  by  was  a  ledge  of  rocks,  which,  wlien  I 
spoke  or  sang,  would  echo  back  my  words.  There  I  would  speak  to 
nature,  as  I  would  have  wished  her  to  speak  to  me  ;  and  then  I 
would  leap  about  for  joy,  as  though  she  had  replied  ;  never  forgetting 
my  aunt's  injunction  to  watch  the  western  hills,  that  I  might  hasten 
home  when  the  sun  touched  their  toj).  When  it  was  time  to  go, 
I  would  call  each  tree  and  rock  by  the  names,  which  I  had  given 
to  them  myself,  and  would  bid  them  all  good-by,  with  a  promise  to 
return.  Sometimes  I  wc  .1  take  a  book,  and  would  teacli  them  how 
to  read,  and  would  repeat  to  them  so  often  old  poetry  and  songs, 
that  I  learned  all  the  verses  myself. 

When  I  went  into  the  woods  I  would  take  off  my  shoes  and  stock- 
ings and  hide  them  in  the  fence,  and  I  never  wore  my  bonnet.  The 
rocks,  healed  by  the  sun,  often  burnt  my  feet,  and  the  sun  scorched 
n)y  face  ;  but  my  heart  was  so  light,  that  I  did  not  mind  the  pain. 

When  the  days  were  very  hot,  I  would  undress,  and  go  into  the 
brook,  where  it  was  shaded  by  a  little  hemlock  grove.  At  other 
times  I  would  sit  close  to  the  stones,  over  which  the  water  dashed^ 


MY   FIRST   LOVE. 


2^ 


and  would  reach  out  my  hands  to  play  with  the  stream,  and  would 
bow  down  my  head  to  kiss  it  as  it  flowed. 

A  childish  weakness  comes  over  me,  and  my  tea:.,  begin  to  flow, 
as  1  try  to  write  the  tale  of  those  once  happy  days.  For  that  wild 
and  savage  woodland  was  my  first  love  ;  I  lose  myself  among  those 
scenes,  as  1  did  years  ago ;  and  it  pains  mc  now  to  leave  them,  as 
it  did  when,  as  a  child,  I  looked  over  at  the  mountain,  whose  top  the 
sun  had  touched,— the  sign  which  told  me  to  return, — and  as  then, 
so  now,  I  linger  to  hid  them  a  fond  good-by. 

In  the  autumn  my  father  returned.  He  remained  but  a  few  days  ; 
and  when  the  hour  of  parting  came,  I  dreaded,  as  never  before,  to 
say  good-by. 

I  reconunenced  my  roving  in  the  woods.  Months  passed  awa}' ; 
and  yet  my  father  did  not  return.  Winter  came,  with  its  bleak  winds 
and  heavy  snows  ;  but  [  went  to  school  in  spite  of  them.  Sometimes 
the  snow  would  drift,  and  I  have  waded  through  it,  when  it  was  nearly 
OS  high  as  myself;  I  enjo)ed  it  hugely ;  and  when  the  snow  would 
freeze  and  bear  me,  I  would  slide  down  the  hills,  until  I  reached  the 
valley.  I  was  just  as  happy  playing  on  the  ice  and  in  the  snow,  as  I 
had  been  in  the  summer,  rambling  in  the  woods. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DEATH    OF   MY   FATHER. — I   WORK    FOR    "GOOD   MARKS "    IN   THE 

noOK   OF    LHE. 


Spring  came;  and  one  beautiful  Ai)ril  morning  I  went  to  the  post- 
office.  My  happiness  was  too  great  when  the  clerk  handed  me  a  letter 
to  my  address.  I  did  notiiing  but  kiss  it,  and  read  my  name  on  it. 
It  was  \\\y  first  letter.  I  did  not  open  it,  nor  feel  any  need  to  do  so. 
I  was  sure,  that  it  must  be  from  my  father.  I  ran  with  it,  as  fast  as  I 
could,  towards  the  school-house;  near  which  I  saw  yVunt  Huldah 
standing  at  her  barnyard  gate.  I  rushed  over  to  her,  crying  out  as 
loud  as  I  could  :  "  Look,  look.  Aunt  Huldah,  my  father  is  coming ; 
here  is  the  letter."  She  took  the  letter,  and  I  went  into  the  school- 
house  ;   but  in  a  few  moments  she  came  after  me  exclaiming,  "  Youi 


"1,1 


28 


MY   LOSS   AND   ITS   LESSON. 


f 


I 


l^ 


i     ■■ 


father  is  {.lead,  your  father  is  dead."  She  took  me  by  tlie  hand,  led 
me  to  her  house,  and  read  me  the  letter.  I  threw  myself  on  the 
floor,  and  wept,  as  though  my  heart  would  break.  My  anguish  was 
increased  by  the  fear,  that  my  mother  might  come  after  me.  My 
relations  believed,  that  she  was  dead ;  and  I  had  never  breathed  her 


name. 


Ever  since  I  had  come  to  my  uncle's  house,  I  had  always  said  my 
prayers  before  going  to  sleep.  The  night  of  the  day,  on  which  1 
had  heard  of  my  fatlier's  death,  I  began  to  weep  at  the  tliought,  that 
I  should  never  see  him  again  on  earth  ;  but  I  trusted  that,  if  I  were 
good,  I  should  meet  him  in  Heaven.  Then  I  began  to  rei)ent  of  all 
the  wicked  lies  I  had  told,  before  I  came  to  Amenia  ;  and,  feel- 
ing, that  he  knew  all  now,  it  made  me  wretched  to  think,  that  he 
should  know  how  bad  I  had  been.  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
then  burst  into  fears,  saying  :  "O  Lord,  I  ask  you,  as  many  times 
as  there  are  grains  of  sand  on  the  sea-shore,  to  forgive  me  for  being 
so  bad  ; "  and  that  i)rayer  I  continued  to  say  for  years  afterwards. 
Sometimes  I  would  change  it  by  saying  :  "  A  million  times  as  many 
as  there  are  grains  of  sand  on  the  sea-shore,  and  drops  of  water  in  the 
ocean." 

The  next  day  after  I  had  heard  of  ni)'  father's  death,  I  answered 
my  sister's  letter.  Part  of  my  letter  I  composed  myself,  and  a  part 
of  it  was  dictated.  I  recollect,  that  whenever  I  wrote  my  father's 
name,  I  would  begin  it  with  a  capital  letter,  and  would  commence 
all  other  names  with  small  letters.  That  was  one  way  of  showing 
to  my  father  more  honor  and  affection,  than  to  any  one  else. 

For  a  long  while  I  could  not  play,  but  would  go  out  into  the 
woods  and  weep,  without  speaking  to  any  one,  except  my  father, 
whom  I  imagined  to  be  near  me. 

One  day  Uncle  Horace  told  me,  that  every  good  acflon  was  recorded 
in  the  book  of  life,  and  so  was  every  bad  one  ;  and  that,  after  death,  we 
were  all  to  be  judged  from  the  record  of  that  book.  I  said  to  myself, 
that  I  would  go  to  work  and  try  to  have  more  good  marks,  than  bad 
ones.  So  1  took  up  the  New  Testament  and  began  to  read.  After 
I  had  read  a  chapter,  I  ran  to  ask  my  aunt  if  she  believed,  that  (}od 
would  give  me  a  good  mark  for  every  chapter  I  read  in  the  Bible. 
She  said  :  "  Certainly."  I  went  back  and  began  to  read  again  ;  and,  as 
I  read,  I  felt  a  glow  around  my  heart ;  it  was  a  feeling  1  had  never 
experienced  before,  and,  in  spite  of  the  thought  of  my  father's  death, 


GOOD   MARKS. 


39 


he  hand,  led 
yself  on  the 
angiiisli  was 
;i"  nie.  A[y 
Jicathed  her 

ays  said  my 
on  which  1 
louglu,  that 
It,  if  1  were 
cpent  of  all 
;  and,  feel- 
ink,  that  he 
Prayer,  and 
many  times 
le  for  being 
afterwards, 
es  as  many 
rvater  in  the 

I  answered 
,  and  a  part 
my  father's 

commence 
of  showing 
se. 
It  into   the 

my  father, 

IS  recorded 
r  death,  we 
1  to  myself, 
i,  than  bad 
ad.  After 
,  that  God 
the  Bible. 
in ;  and,  as 
had  never 
ir's  death, 


I  was  consoled.  I  no  longer  wished  him  back  ;  and  I  was  impressed 
with  the  assurance,  that  I  should  meet  him  in  Heaven.  I  did  not 
finish  the  chapter,  before  I  went  to  my  aunt  again,  and  asked  her  if 
God  would  give  me  a  good  mark  for  every  rcrsc  I  might  read.  Again 
she  said  :  "  Yes."  1  went  back,  feeling  happier  than  ever,  took  up 
the  Bible,  and  felt  such  joy,  that  I  skijiped  about  a  few  moments  be- 
fore 1  commenced  to  read.  I  then  hardly  read  three  verses  before 
1  ran  to  my  aunt  again,  and  asked,  if  He  would  give  me  a  good  mark 
for  every  7C'orti  I  might  read.  She  said,  "Yes,  yes."  "Why,"  said 
I,  "  how  good  He  is  !  "  and  the  warmth  around  my  heart  began  to 
increase.  I  was  so  hapi)y,  that  I  could  not  sit  still  and  read.  So  I 
read  and  walked  the  floor,  until  I  was  tired.  I  then  went  to  a  room 
where  my  aunt  was  busily  engaged.  Slie  said  impatiently  :  "If  you 
bother  me  so,  God  will  give  you  a  black  mark."  I  instantly  felt  a 
sharp  pain  around  my  heart.  For  I  would  have  denied  myself  any- 
thing at  that  moment,  sooner  than  oft'end  God.  I  told  her,  that  I 
came  only  to  look  on,  and  not  to  talk.  Then  I  said  to  myself:  "  You 
will  not  give  me  a  black  mark  now,  will  you,  God?"  I  continued 
reading  the  liible  with  this  same  intention  for  several  weeks ;  and 
every  time  I  felt  the  same  glow  around  my  heart. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

"deacon  dot." — MY  childhood's  reijgion. 

My  father  had  not  been  long  dead,  when  one  day,  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  house,  I  was  gathering  fruit.  I  was  here  accosted  by  our 
neighbor,  Mr.  "  Dot,"  a  man  of  fifty,  and  a  leader  in  the  Methodist 
church.  He  made  advances  and  attempted  familiarities  too  unworthy 
of  his  age  and  his  i)rofessions. 

These  I  instantly  resented  and  began  to  weep.  Then  to  soothe 
nie,  and  to  purchase  my  silence,  he  poured  out  the  berries,  he  had 
gathered,  into  my  basket.  In  obedience  to  his  injunctions,  the  very 
next  day  I  told  all  the  school  children,  and  shortly  afterward  my  aunt 
Mercy.  She  could  hardly  believe  me;  yet  she  and  my  uncle  thought 
proper  to  watch  ;  and  they  one  day  detected  him  in  the  act  of  at- 
tempting similar  familiarities. 


i  I 


I  1 


30 


THE   FEAR   OF  THE   EORD. 


I' J 


1: 


The  man  sobbed  and  begged  for  mercy,  while  m}'  uncle  and  aunt, 
in  no  measured  language,  rated  him  for  tlie  strange  discrepancy  be- 
tween his  practice  and  the  religion  lie  professed. 

For  several  da\s  he  had  long  talks  with  them  in  secret ;  until,  at 
last,  they  yielded  to  his  entreaties,  and  promised  not  to  expose  him, 
and  cautioned  me  to  never  let  the  secret  escape  my  lips. 

This  event  awakened  my  uncle  and  aunt  to  the  consciousness  of 
the  great  responsibility  they  had  assumed  in  undertaking  to  bring  up 
a  girl ;  and,  from  that  moment,  they  began  to  talk  to  me  frecpiently 
about  the  hai)piness  of  the  good  and  the  torments  of  the  sinful ;  and, 
holding  this  man  uj)  to  me  as  an  example  of  wickedness,  they  tried 
to  instil  into  my  mind  the  truths  of  Christianity. 

When  they  spoke  to  me  of  Clod,  they  always  taught  nic  to  fear 
Him.  and  never  talked  to  me  of  loving  Him  ;  yet  they  would  often 
refer  to  the  love  of  Crod  for  us. 

In  speaking  of  our  Saviour  they  would  always  refer  to  His  divinity, 
and  but  little  to  His  sacred  humanity.  They  dwell  upon  the  truth 
that  Christ  is  Ciod ;  but  this  they  seemed  to  understand,  as  if  the 
human  nature  had  been  changed  into  the  divine.  They  did  not  seem 
to  appreciate,  that  if  Christ  is  Cod,  it  is  only  because  Cod  Ih-oinie 
man,  and  is  man.  And  least  of  all  did  they  seem  to  realize,  that  the 
divine  person,  in  uniting  a  human  nature  to  the  divine  in  unity  of 
person,  made  IJis  oion  the  actions  and  sufferings  of  that  human 
nature,  the  thoughts  of  that  human  mind,  and  the  affections  of  that 
human  heart. 

Under  their  teaching  I  learned  the  truth,  that  Christ  is  the  Creator, 
most  powerful,  omniscient,  and  Lord  ;  but  I  did  not  understand, 
that  in  Christ  the  eternal  wisdom  and  love  of  His  divine  nature  were 
translated  by  the  divinity  itself  into  the  thoughts  of  a  human  mind 
and  the  affections  of  a  human  heart,  so  that  on  account  of  tin;  unity 
oi person  these  thoughts  and  affections  were  the  thou;,;its  and  affec- 
tions of  a  God  ;  and  while  tlie  divine  nature  in  itself  could  not  suffer 
nor  labor,  yet  in  His  human  nature  Cod  was  truly  sad  and  weary, 
and  labored  and  suffered,  and  grieved  and  wept  and  died.  I  feared 
Christ  as  my  judge,  rather  than  loved  Him  as  my  Saviour.  I  felt, 
that  it  would  be  ])resumption  in  me  to  ])ity  one  so  great  and  mighty  ; 
that  1  had  great  need  of  His  mercy,  but  that  he  could  not  need,  and 
could  hardly  desire  my  compassion. 

Such  were  the  ideas  of  Cod,  which  gave  shape  to  the  religion  of 


my 

ignore 


SELFISH   PIETY. 


31 


e  and  aunt, 
epancy  be- 

t ;  until,  at 
xpose  Iiini, 

ousness  of 
;o  bring  up 

fre(iucntlv' 
inful;  and, 

they  tried 

nic  to  fear 
'ould  often 

is  divinity, 
the  truth 
as    if  the 

I  not  seem 
od  became 
?,  that  the 

II  unity  of 
at  human 
)ns  of  tliat 

L>  Creator, 
iderstand, 

ture  were 
nan  mind 

the  unity 
and  affec- 
not  suffer 

III  weaiy, 
I  feared 

1   felt, 
mighty  ; 
leed,  and 

eligion  of 


■'I 


v1 


my  childhood.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply,  that  my  teachers  entirely 
ignored,  much  less  that  they  denied,  the  humanity  of  Christ  and 
all  its  logical  consequences ;  but  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  in  my 
uncle's  house,  such,  as  I  have  described,  was  the  tendency  of  the 
teaching,  or,  at  least,  this  was  the  waj-  in  which  my  infant  mind  seized 
the  instruction. 

In  their  efforts  to  enlighten  me  in  regard  to  the  truths  of  the  gos- 
pel, they  awakened  no  emotion  of  love  in  my  breast  for  God.  So 
long  as  I  could  keep  His  threats  in  my  mind,  I  tried  to  obey  Him ; 
but  in  this  I  was  actuated  by  self-love ;  for  I  feared  hell  only  for  its 
torments,  and  1  longed  for  heaven  only  to  join  my  father. 

I  soon  began  to  call  on  God  for  everything.  When  I  went  out  to 
gather  berries,  I  would  call  on  Him  to  lead  me  where  I  would  find 
the  most  fruit.  Sometimes  1  would  thank  the  Lord  for  every  berry  I 
gathered  ;  and  it  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  I  used  to  gather  more 
fruit,  than  any  other  child  in  the  country.  I  was  renowned  for  it ; 
but  I  was  selfish ;  for  I  never  told  my  secret,  lest  the  other  children 
should  ask  Him,  and  He  would  help  them  too. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 


THE    ILLKGITIMATE    CHILD. 


We  had  been  for  months  expecting  a  letter  from  my  father's 
brothers. 

It  came  at  last.  It  was  from  my  uncle  Milton,  who  said,  that  my 
fuller  had  died  penniless  ;  that  all  his  children  were  illegitimate ;  and 
that  they  had  no  claims  on  the  St.  John  family,  who  refused  to  either 
recognize  or  assist  them. 

A  few  weeks  after  my  uncle  Milton  had  written,  my  tmcle  Chaun 
cey  St.  John  and  his  wife  made  their  country  cousins  a  visit,  and  told 
them  how  my  father  had  forsworn  himself,  to  pass  off  Maria  Monk's 
child  as  his  own ;  and  that  she  was  the  mother  of  his  two  children. 
Although  it  was  only  months  afterwards,  that  I  learned  all  this,  yet  I 
began  immediately  to  feel  the  evil  effects  of  this  visit  on  myself;  for 
the  family  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  their  indignation  against  my 


11 


3i 


"THE  SINS  OF  THE   PARENTS. 


;f1 


fiither.  But  what  mystified  them  was,  that  I  slioultl  not  have  remem- 
bered my  mother;  and,  for  a  long  while,  they  thought,  that  I  must 
be  some  other  womaii's  child. 

One  day  my  aunt  began  to  question  me,  and  asked  if  I  remem- 
bered my  mother.  I  denied  at  fust  all  remembrance  of  her.  She 
then  told  me  wiiat  my  uncle  Chauncey  had  said.  When  I  saw,  that 
she  knew  so  much,  I  told  her  all  about  my  mother. 

"What !"  she  exclaimed,  "you,  but  a  child,  could  be  so  deep,  as 
to  deceive  us  all  in  this  way  so  long.  Why  did  you  just  now  deny, 
that  \ou  knew  anything  about  your  mother  ?"  I  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  her,  that  I  had  done  so  in  obedience  to  my  father;  when  she 
commenced  to  talk  of  the  dreadful  punishment,  which  awaits  all  liars, 
and  said,  that  if  my  father  had  not  sworn  to  a  lie,  we  might  have  been 
respectable  children ;  for  my  uncle  Chauncey  had  said,  that  it  might 
be  true,  that  he  was  married,  but,  as  he  had  forsworn  himself,  the 
executors  had  refused  to  recognize  his  children  as  heirs,  unless  he 
should  prove  his  marriage,  which  my  father  would  not  do.  She  told 
me,  that  my  uncle  Chauncey  had  repeatedly  spoken  of  the  strong  re- 
semblance, which  I  bore  to  the  St.  Johns  ;  but,  as  my  aunt  had  as- 
sured him,  that  I  had  forgotten  my  mother,  and  that  she  had  died 
when  I  was  very  young  ;  they  had  felt  sure  that  I  was  not  one  of  the 
children,  whose  names  had  been  registered  and  then  crossed  off. 

I  wept  bitterly  at  my  aunt's  taunts,  and  begged  her  to  forgive  me. 
I  promised,  that  I  would  never  deceive  her  again  ;  I  threw  my  arms 
around  her  and  tried  to  kiss  her,  but  she  pushed  me  away,  declaring 
that  she  would  never  believe  another  word  I  said.  I  had  to  bear  it 
all,  and  I  never  told  her,  that  my  father  had  strictly  forbidden  both 
Georgina  and  myself  ever  to  mention  our  mother's  name.  My 
brother  could  not  remember  her. 

Aunt  Mercy  tried  hard  to  make  me  understand  what  an  illegiti- 
mate child  was,  but  she  could  only  explain  the  word  as  a  dictionary 
would  have  done.  She  knew  only  the  name  ;  but  the  venom  had 
never  reached  har;  she  had  never  felt  the  sting.  She  told  me,  it  is 
true,  how  the  world  turns  its  back  on  those  whom  Providence  places 
under  the  ban  by  this  name;  but  she  did  not  tell  me  the  heart-rend- 
ing sufferings  to  which  the  illegitimate  child  is  heir.  It  is  only  those, 
who  have  lain  beneath  its  pall,  that  can  ever  know  the  extent  and 
constancy  of  the  tortures  covered  by  this  ignominious  title.  Not 
only  does  the  world  shun  them,  but  the  very  blood  of  their  kindred 


NO  NAME. 


33 


iVL*  remcni- 
lat  I  must 

I   rcmein- 

her.     She 

I  saw,  that 

0  deep,  as 
now  deny, 

lie  point  of 

when  she 
its  all  liars, 

have  been 
It  it  nii"ht 
iniself,  the 

unless  he 
She  told 
;  strong  re- 
nt had  as- 
;  had  died 

one  of  the 
.•(1  off. 
irgive  me. 
.V  my  arms 
,  declaring 
to  bear  it 
ddcn  both 
nie.      Afy 

an  illegiti- 
dictionary 
enom  had 

1  me,  it  is 
nee  i)laces 
leart-rend- 
)nly  those, 
xtent  and 
itie.  Not 
ir  kindred 


curdles  against  them,  as  a  living  reproach  to  their  own  unsullied 
name.  Nor  is  I  he  measure  of  their  miseries  full  in  being  bereft  of 
fortune,  honor,  and  affection.  The  interests  of  society  require,  that 
they  shall  not  share  that,  which  in  one  or  two  syllables  conveys  to  the 
legitimate  child  so  much  of  the  history  of  its  blood;  that,  which  con- 
tains so  much  of  warning  or  incitement ;  that,  which  strikes  so  many 
tender  cords  of  the  sweetest  ties  of  kindred  and  affection — a  name. 
'J'he  illegitimate  child  must  have  no  name,  or  only  one,  that  either  tells 
a  lie  or  says  nothing.  For  it  is  a  sort  of  theft  practised  on  their  kin- 
dred, if  these  children  dare  to  take  the  name  of  their  own  fixther. 
'I'lieir  kindred  too  often  seem  to  fmd  it  easier  to  forgive  the  sin  of 
the  parent,  than  the  pertinacity  of  the  children  in  clinging  to  life. 
The  world  seems  to  consider  the  M///r/tv  of  their  existence  as  "  worse 
than  a  crime,"  and  punishes  it  accordingly. 

There  is  seldom  any  hand,  however  feeble,  raised  in  defence  of  the 
illegitimate  child. 

It  certainly  is  but  proper,  that  the  secret  sin  of  the  parent  should 
be  concealed,  as  far  as  is  consistent  widi  justice  and  kindness  to  the 
.innocent.  But  is  it  not  characteristic  of  the  i^ride  and  selfishness  of 
the  world,  that,  while  it  is  so  ready  to  condone  the  sin,  it  can  be  so 
hard  and  cruel  to  the  child,  who  by  its  mere  existence  may  be  the 
unwilling,  even  unconscious,  means  of  revealing  it  ?  But  why  dwell  on 
the  hardness  of  remoter  kindred,  when  this  same  pride  and  selfishness 
so  turn  awry  the  current  of  natural  affection  in  the  parents  them- 
selves, who  are  often  the  fust  to  abandon  it  ?  The  smiles  and  ca- 
resses of  such  a  child  become  to  them  reproaches  ;  and,  to  drown  re- 
morse in  forgetfidness,  they  will  abandon  their  offspring  to  the  hands 
of  strangers,  and  oftener  to  the  still  colder  hands  of  public  charity. 

Should  such  a  child  inherit  only  low  and  grovelling  instincts  from 
parents,  who  abandon  it,  and  kindred,  who  oppress  it ;  its  lot,  in  the 
worldly  view,  were  even  then  hardly  so  pitiful,  as  when  nature  en- 
kindles in  its  breast  a  si)ark  of  her  sacred  flame,  to  make  it  aspire  to 
something  higher  and  nobler.  The  world,  or  rather  society,  too  in- 
different to  give  its  hate,  will  give  but  grudgingly  that  fame,  which  is 
its  highest  incentive  and  reward,  and  that  credit,  which  is  due  to  moral 
energy  and  real  worth. 

Even  now  I  can  hear  the  world's  familiar  words, — they  have  often  ^ 
grated  on  my  heart, — "  It   is  always  so  with   illegitimate  children. 
They  are  always  more  clever  than  others.     Pity  that  it  should  be  so ; 


34 


CHRISTUS   CONSOLATOR. 


•'1  I 


but  so  it  is."  "Of  course  jw^  couldn't  be  other  than  intelligent,  my 
dear:'  Thus  will  society  encourage  the  efforts  of  the  illegitimate 
child,  too  often  paralyzing  its  energies  and  stifling  in  their  conception 
its  generous  resolves  to  persevere  and  overcome  misfortune.  If  it 
docs  persevere,  it  will  fmd  society  but  too  ready,  at  the  very  hour  of 
triumph,  to  force  upon  its  brow  an  ignominiou-  crown,  putting  the 
sin  and  shame,  in  which  it  was  conceived,  above  the  honor  of  a  life 
of  toil  and  sacrifice. 

Well  will  it  be  for  that  child,  if  it  will  learn  at  the  same  time  the 
true  secret  of  misfortune's  triumph  from  Him,  the  triumph  of  whose 
kingdom  the  world  signalized  by  a  reed  sceptre,  and  a  crown  of 
thorns,  and  an  inscrii)tion  derisive  of  His  royalty,  as  it  did  Him  to 
death  on  a  gibbet.  It  is  His  heart  alone,  and  hearts  modelled  upon 
His,  that  can  sympathize  aright  with  these  children  of  misfortune, 
who  have  been  nourished  on  the  bread  of  suffering  from  the  very 
dawn  of  their  existence.  Yes,  it  is  the  Christian  alone  who  can 
truly  tell  why  hearts  must  first  be  hollowed  out  by  the  hand  of  af- 
fliction before  they  can  receive  that  true  ligiit  and  that  strength  of 
will,  which  will  ever  bear  them  onward  and  upward.  For  it  is  always 
suffering,  or  rather  the  cross  of  Jesus  Christ,  whicii,  in  striking  our 
hearts,  brings  forth  their  latent  fires,  and  awakens  to  supernatural 
energy  minds,  that  might  have  remained  forever  dormant,  had  they 
been  bred  only  in  the  lap  of  luxury  and  pleasure.  But,  while  the 
cross  is  blessed  for  tiie  heroic  souls,  that  bear  it,  yet  will  (iod  not 
hold  guiltless  the  heartless  world,  that  crucifies  them. 

In  vain  does  the  world  attempt  to  exonerate  itself  by  scriptural 
phrases,  which,  it  pretends,  authorize  its  cruelty  towards  the  illegiti- 
mate child.  In  vain  will  it  tell  you,  with  the  IJihle  in  its  hand,  that 
they  are  the  children  of  sin,  and  that  it  is  the  law  of  Cod's  provi- 
dence, that  they  should  suffer  for  the  sins  of  their  parents.  Too  well 
do  we  know,  that  God's  ])rovidence  permits  all  this,  and  reverently  do 
we  bow  to  His  dispensations.  I5iit  from  that  very  legacy  of  hereditary 
woe  itself,  have  they  not  all  the  greater  claim  upon  Christian  charity  ? 
Do  the  holy  Scri[)tures  tell  i/s  to  judge  one  another?  Do  they  tell 
us  to  mete  out  to  these  children  the  i)unishment  due  to  the  sins  of 
their  parents  ?  Do  they  not  strictly  forbid  us  to  judge  one  anoliier, 
and  command  us  to  leave  that  to  Cod  ? 

It  is  willing  instruments  of  his  mercy,  and  not  of  His  justice,  that 
God  seeks  among  men.     Lei  these  would-be  followers  of  God  hum- 


4 


diligent,  my 
illegitimate 
conception 
tune.  If  it 
ery  hour  of 
putting  the 
tior  of  a  hfe 

me  time  the 
[)h  of  whose 
a  crown  of 

did  Him  to 
)delled  upon 
"  misfortune, 
lom  the  very 
)ne  who   can 

hand  of  af- 
,t  strength  of 
)r  it  is  always 
1  striking  our 

su\)crnatural 
ant,  had  tliey 
Jut,  while  tlie 

will  (lod  not 


by  scrii)tural 
ds  the  illegiti- 
ils  hand,  that 
(lod's  provi- 
its.  Too  well 
i  reverently  do 
y  of  hereditary 
istian  charity  ? 
Do  they  tell 
:  to  the  sins  of 
e  one  anoliier, 


lis  justice,  that 
s  of  God  hum- 


■"•VV.**^ 


S     '» 


AUWT  MERCY. 


bly  ackno 
fill  thanks, 
tune.  By 
for  themst 
tation,  wli 
the  innocc 
the  lot  of 


From  t 
which  she 
justice,  bi 
She  felt,  t 

}5ut  ni) 
aroused  I 
and  obstii 
me  new  h 
repulsive 
so  many  1 
of  songs 
rocks  and 
my  impri 
fear. 

I  begar 
ting  me 
Monk. 

1  dreac 
months  h 
'bund  not 

My  aiu 
that  I  ass 
would  tr) 
exasperat 
me  with  ( 


S;- 


THE  PLAINT  OF  NOBODY'S   CHILD. 


35 


bly  acknowledge  their  own  unworthiness  and  offer  Him  their  grate- 
ful thanks,  that,  in  His  mercy,  He  has  spared  them  a  similar  misfor- 
tune. By  their  charity  to  the  less  fortunate  let  them  try  to  win 
for  themselves  His  love  and  His  protection  against  the  hour  ofteni])- 
tation,  when,  if  not  assisted  by  His  grace,  they  too  might  entail  upon 
tiie  innocent  that  inheritance  of  suffering,  which  is  inseparable  fioni 
the  lot  of  an  illegitimate  child. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

nobody's  child. 

From  that,  for  me,  fatal  day  my  aunt  conceived  a  dislike  for  me, 
which  slic  never  tried  to  conceal.  She  attempted  to  treat  me  with 
justice,  but  she  never  offered  me  one  word  of  sympathy  or  affection. 
She  felt,  that  I  v.  as  bad,  and  that  I  deserved  to  suffer. 

]5ut  my  worst  enemy,  that  was  lodged  in  my  own  breast,  was 
aroused  by  such  treatment.  My  wounded  pride,  made  me  reckless 
and  obstinate  ;  and  its  exhibitions  were  sure  ever  to  bring  down  upon 
me  new  humiliations  and  trials,  as  galling  to  my  pride,  as  they  were 
repulsive  to  my  will.  I  would  go  into  the  woods,  where  I  liad  passed 
so  many  happy  hours  in  sportive  dalliance  with  nature  ;  but,  instead 
of  songs  and  laughter  and  the  merry  words  of  childhood,  those 
rocks  and  hillsides  would  echo  back  my  wails  of  impotent  rage,  and 
my  imprecations  against  God  and  those,  whom  I  had  learned  to 
fear. 

I  began  to  hate  God,  and  would  often  reproach  Him  for  permit- 
ting me  to  be  an  orjihan,  and  poor,  and  the  daughter  of  Maria 
Monk. 

I  dreaded  the  very  sight,  too,  of  that  home,  where,  but  a  few 
months  before,  1  liad  b(;en  so  hai)py,  but  within  whose  walls  now  I 
'ound  nothing  but  suffering. 

My  aunt  was  sorely  vexed  to  see  me  so  dejected.  She  thouglit, 
that  1  assumed  tiiis  air,  to  annoy  her;  and  by  injurious  words  she 
would  try  to  force  nic  to  be  natural.  Hut  my  answers  would  so 
exasperate  her,  that  sometimes  she  would  strike  me,  and  nearly  stun 
me  with  one  blow.     To  punish  my  pride,  she  would  force  me  to  work, 


I 


:;i   : 


I    .  ■ 


36 


THE  WOLF  AND   THE  LAMB. 


and  do  the  most  menial  services  about  the  house ;  but  she  little 
understood  all,  that  I  was  writhing  under,  and  how  I  was  goaded  by 
the  sense  of  shame.  Even  die  school-children  knew,  that  my 
mother  was  Maria  Monk  :  they  used  to  throw  it  in  my  face,  and  cal' 
me  a  bastard;  and  as  I  therefore  became  just  as  bad  at  school,  as  I 
was  at  home,  my  conduct  there  made  me  generally  dislil;ed. 

As  soon  as  I  had  become  misfortune's  mark,  all  my  ways  were 
scrutinized,  and  fuiilts,  which  would  have  been  easily  overlooked, 
when  my  fathei  lii(  d.  were  exaggerated  into  crimes,  the  moment  I 
became  an  object  of  charity. 

(  The  children  would  keep  away  from  me  and  tell  me,  that  theii 
parents  had  forbidden  them  to  associate  with  me.  They  would 
taunt  me,  and  ask  me,  what  was  my  name,  and  would  tell  me,  that 
they  knew  it  was  not  St.  John ;  that  I  was  a  girl  without  a  name. 
Sometimes  the  school-children  would  whisper  among  themselves,  and 
I  would  overliear  my  mother's  name  :  she  would  then  appear  before 
me  in  one  of  her  most  hideous  forms,  and  I  could  see  her  again,  as 
I  had  seen  her  in  her  drunken'.iess,  when  she  would  seize  me,  beat 
me,  and  curse  me  at  every  blow. 

When  I  would  hear  that  name  on  the  children's  lips,  it  would 
humiliate  me  so,  that  I  would  have  gladly  gone  back  to  her,  and 
have  borne  all  of  Maria  Monk's  cruelty,  rather  than  be  known  to 
any  one  else  as  Maria  Monk's  daughter. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  WOLF  STRIPPED    OF  SHEEP's   CLOTHING. — 1    MAKE  A  RESOLUTION. 

My  greatest  persecutor  was  Deacon  '*  Dot."  He  never  forgave 
me  the  wrong  he  had  attempted  to  do  me,  and  the  exposure,  which 
at  the  time  had  threatened  him.  My  father  and  mother  were  spoken 
of  by  him  in  most  abusive  language,  and  he  did  everything  to  make 
their  faults  reflect  on  me.  My  aunt  Mercy  became  indignant,  and 
n'as  imprudent  enough  to  exclaim,  in  the  presence  of  my  aunt  Caro- 
line (my  uncle  Orin's  wife),  that  he  had  better  beware,  for  she 
knew  enough  about  him,  to  expel  him  from  the  church.  One  day 
my  aunt  Caroline  asked  me,  if  I  could  imagine  what  my  aunt  Mercy 
meant  by  speaking  so  of  Brother  Dot. 


RETRIBUTION. 


37 


she  little 
joaded  by 

that  inj 
;,  and  cal' 
hool,  as  I 
± 

ways  were 
/eilooked, 
moment  I 

that  theii 
ley  would 
1  me,  that 
t  a  name, 
elves,  and 
?ar  before 
r  again,  as 
me,  beat 

,  it  would 
5  her,  and 
known  to 


SOLUTION. 

2r  forgave 
urc,  which 
;re  spoken 
J  to  make 
jnant,  and 
.unt  Caro- 
2,  for  she 
One  day 
unt  Mercy 


I  was  fond  of  boasting,  and  I  was  rejoiced  to  tell  her,  that  I  knew 
all.  But  I  refused  to  tell  her  what  it  was.  She  did  everything  to 
wrest  the  secret  from  me.  I  had  always  loved  my  aunt  Carohne, 
and  had  once  cut  off  my  hair  and  given  it  to  her,  to  make  herself  a 
wig,  as  she  expressed  a  wish  to  have  it.  For  weeks  and  weel^s  I 
resisted  all  her  arts  to  make  me  tell  the  secret.  She  showered  upon 
me  every  kindness,  until,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  I  told  her  all. 
She  immediately  communicated  it  to  the  leading  members  of  the 
church,  and  in  less  than  a  month  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town. 

If  1  resisted  her  so  long,  it  was  not  that  I  dreaded  the  conse- 
(^uences  to  myself  1  did  not  imagine,  that  the  knowledge  of  what 
had  occurred  could  injure  me.  But  Uncle  Horace  and  Aunt  Mercy 
had  both  told  me,  at  the  time  of  the  occurrence,  how  they  would  be 
compromised,  if  what  liad  happened  were  made  known,  as  it  was 
their  duty  to  expose  the  man  to  the  church. 

The  church  took  the  matter  up.  Uncle  Horace  and  Aunt  Mercy 
were  summoned  before  a  committee  of  the  select  members  of  the 
congregation.  They  made  a  true,  simple  statement  of  the  facts,  and 
Brother  Dot  was  expelled.  My  uncle  and  aunt  were  censured  for 
having  concealed  his  fault,  and  my  aunt  Caroline  was  commended  for 
having  disclosed  it.  I  was  now  thirtel^n  years  old,  and  no  one  sto[)ped 
to  think,  that  all  this  had  happened  when  I  was  but  ten  years  of  age,  in 
fact,  a  mere  child ;  and  as  every  body  disliked  me,  they  all  said,  that 
I  was  already  as  corrupt  and  depraved  as  my  mother. 

Everybody  sympathized  with  the  "  Brother,"  and  not  one  voice  was 
raised  in  my  defence.  It  became  at  last  almost  impossible  for  me  to 
go  anywhere,  without  being  insulted. 

A  certain  rich  farmer  and  his  flimily,  who  were  among  the  most 
estimable  members  of  the  Methodist  church,  were  the  most  vehe- 
ment in  declaiming  against  the  injustice  and  injury  done  to  brother 
Dot,  and  the  readiest  to  vent  indignation  on  my  defenceless  head. 

1  will  here  advance  a  few  years  in  my  story  to  comi)lete  this  man 
and  "brother's"   history.     Before  three  years  had   jjassed.  Dot  was 

openly   accused  of  having  ruined   Miss ,  the   sister  of  the  rich 

farmer,  his  friend  and  benefactor.  The  family  prosecuted  him.  He 
.was  tried  by  a  jury  and  found  guilty,  and  would  have  been  con- 
demned to  the  penitentiary.  Jiut  he  died  the  same  night,  that  he  was 
convicted.     It  has  been  sui)posed  by  many,  that  he  committed  suicide. 

To  return  to  my  story,  my  life  now  became  wretched  in  tiie  ex- 


If 


38 


SIGHING  FOR   LIBERTY, 


i 


I'    h 


treme.  No  child  would  speak  to  me  at  school,  except  to  insult  me  ; 
and  the  boys  would  hoot  at  me,  as  I  passed  along,  and  would  make 
the  most  indecent  gestures  accompanied  with  the  vilest  language. 

One  day  I  begged  my  aunt  to  let  me  leave  the  place.  She  asked 
me  wliere  I  would  go,  and  said  that  no  one,  who  had  ever  heard  of 
in^before,  would  take  me,  and  that  strangers  would  want  to  know  all 
about  me.  As  for  herself,  she  could  not  say  anything  in  my  favor ; 
so  that  she  did  not  see  any  other  place  for  me  but  the  poor-house. 
If  1  chose  to  go  tliere  I  might.  I  answered  by  saying,  that  1  would 
run  away  at  the  fust  chance.  "  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  do  it  if  you 
dare  ;  and  the  State  will  seize  you  as  a  vagrant,  and  bind  you  out  to 
some  family  until  you  are  eighteen.'  This  frightened  me,  for  I  knew 
several  orphan  girls,  who  had  been  bound  out  by  the  State  until  they 
were  eighteen ;  and  they  were  treated  like  slaves.  "  So,"  said  I, 
"  I  cannot  do  as  I  please,  until  I  am  eighteen  :  I  have  five  years 
more,  therefore,  and  then  I  shall  be  free."  I  went  away  by  myself, 
and,  after  shedding  a  flood  of  tibars,  I  became  somewhat  resigned  to 
my  lot,  and  began  to  think  how  I  could  pass  the  time,  until  the  five 
years  had  rolled  round.  Five  years  at  that  age  seemed  like  an 
eternity,  l^iit  hope  filled  my  heart  and  began  to  infuse  into  me  an 
indcjmitable  energy,  which  enaUled  me  to  resist  and  to  fight  against 
jny  destiny.  I  made  a  resolution  not  to  be  sad,  nor  to  care  for  any- 
thing or  anybody ;  since  I  saw,  that  there  was  not  one  on  earth,  who 
cared  for  me. 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE   TRIBULATIONS    OF    BET5Y    DOT. 

From  that  hour  there  was  nothing  bad,  which  it  was  in  my  power 
to  do,  and  which  could  give  me  a  moment's  ^^ratification,  that  I.  did 
not  do  ;  and  the  more  mischief  there  was  in  the  thing,  the  more  I 
enjoyed  it.  I  did  not  care  for  the  consequences.  To  experience  a 
moment's  pleasure,  I  woulcl  risk  any  punishment.  I  became  as 
adroit  as  a  Spartan  thief;  and  the  only  sense  of  shame,  1  ever  felt,  for 
all  my  evil  deeds,  was  when  1  did  them  so  bunglingly,  that  I  could 
be  found  out.  Then  I  bhisheci  at  my  want  of  caution,  and  would  be 
more  angry  with  myself  than  those  who  reproved  me. 


irnnir'tfaiirniiiiimiii 


;ept  to  insult  me  j 
,  and  would  make 
ilest  language, 
lace.     She  asked 
ad  ever  heard  of 

want  to  know  all 
ing  in  my  favor ; 
:  the  poor-house, 
ing,  that  1  would 
1,  "  do  it  if  you 
1  bind  you  out  to 
d  me,  for  I  knew 
e  State  until  they 
.  "So,"  said  I, 
I  have  five  years 
t  away  by  m}self, 
;what  resigned  to 
me,  until  the  five 

seemed  like  an 
ifuse  into  me  an 
d  to  fight  against 

to  care  for  any- 
iie  on  earth,  who 


BETSY   "DOT." 


'as  m  my  power 
:ation,  that  I  did 
ing,  the  more  I 
To  exi)erience  a 
I  became  as 
e,  1  ever  felt,  for 
gly,  that  I  could 
1,  and  would  be 


1 


« 


'm  ^i\ 
'si 


I 


M 


H 


SWEET  REVENGE. 


39 


d 


My  aunt  soon  noticed  a  marked  change  in  me,  and  was  not  long 
in  discerning,  that  it  was  boldly  for  the  worse.  But  this,  instead  of 
increasing  her  bad  opinion  of  me,  only  gave  her  encouragement ; 
for  she  thought,  that  I  was  becoming  less  deceitful  and  less  hypocritical. 
From  that  time  I  was  more  to  be  feared  than  des])ised  ;  and  I  soon 
became  the  terror  of  the  neighbors,  by  reason  of  the  mischievous 
tricks  1  would  play  U[)on  them,  to  avenge  the  slightest  offence. 

Mrs.  Dot,  the  wife  of  the  "  deacon,"  one  day  made  two  charges 
against  me,  of  both  of  which  I  was  innocent.  One  was  that,  instead 
of  going  into  the  woods  to  gather  berries,  I  had  gathered  them  in 
her  garden  ;  for  she  had  seen  little  tracks  in  the  ploughed  ground. 
The  other  charge  was,  tiiat  I  had  stolen  a  piece  of  rag-carpet  for  my 
})lay -house ;  for  she  had  found  it  among  the  rocks. 

In  return  for  the  first  injury,  1  never  let  an  opportunity  slip  of 
gathering  her  fruit ;  and,  to  disguise  my  tracks,  I  would  put  on  an 
old  pair  of  men's  boots. 

As  to  the  other  charge,  it  seemed  to  me,  that  no  ordinary  revenge 
was  sufficient  to  repair  my  wounded  honor.  The  idea  of  my  stealing 
a  piece  of  old  rag-carpet  was  too  much  for  my  pride ;  and  I  could 
hardly  rest  in  my  perplexity  to  devise  a  punishment  equal  to  the 
offence. 

One  morning  I  saw  all  the  people  go  to  a  funeral,  leaving  nobody 
in  the  neighborhood  but  Aunt  Lavinia  and  myself.  I  felt,  that  my 
hour  had  come.  The  *'l)ot"  family  had  a  favorite  cat,  a  tremen- 
dous animal,  which  they  had  educated,  petted,  and  doted  upon  for 
years.  My  first  exi)loit  was  to  catch  this  cat,  tie  it  up  together  with 
a  big  stone  in  a  bag,  and  throw  it  into  the  pond.  Then  I  determined 
to  get  into  the  house,  and  made  a  thorough  survey  of  the  premises. 
The  weaving-room  was  on  the  first  floor  in  the  rear.  In  one  of  the 
side  windows,  close  to  the  door,  a  pane  of  glass  had  been  broken, 
and  its  place  supplied  by  an  old  straw  hat.  As  I  found  the  window 
fastened,  I  pushed  in  the  hat,  thrust  my  arm  through  the  jjlace  of  the 
broken  pane,  pulled  out  a  corn-cob,  that  was  placed  in  the  staple  to 
fasten  the  door,  and  then  went  in. 

Betsy  Dot's  loom  contained  a  piece  of  white  flannel,  which  she 
was  weaving  for  the  Ketchums,  the  aristocrats  of  Dutchess  ;  and 
Mrs.  Dot  was  taking  all  pains  to  make  a  beautiful  piece  of  cloth,  to 
Becure  their  patronage. 

She  had  left  everything  in  the  room  in  perfect  order.     I  spooled 


:i 


40 


WOOF  AND   WARP. 


^^i 


■'h 


i;J    •'! 


il 


some  yarn  for  the  shuttle,  and  snarled  all  the  other  skeins  I  could 
find.  I  then  began  to  weave,  ')ut  with  great  difficulty;  for,  on  ac- 
count of  the  sliortness  of  my  arms,  I  had  to  push  the  sinittle  from  one 
side  and  pull  it  ^rom  the  otiier. 

In  pulling  it  through,  I  drew  the  thread  tight,  so  as  to  make  the 
edge  of  the  piece  as  uneven  as  possible. 

I  wove  about  the  eighth  of  a  yartl ;  and  I  could  put  my  fingers  into 
the  holes,  which  I  left  by  not  fastening  the  thread,  when  it  broke. 
Getting  tired  of  weaving,  I  threw  the  shuttle  across  the  room,  where 
it  fell  behind  a  box  ;  and  I  turned  everything  in  the  room  toj)sy- 
turvy.  1  then  threaded  a  darning-needle  with  a  long  piece  of  yarn,  at- 
tached the  thread  to  the  crown  of  the  hat,  stuck  the  needle  into  the 
sash  by  the  broken  ])ane,  went  out,  and  from  the  window  fastened 
the  door  with  the  corn-cob,  with  the  thread  pulled  up  the  hat  and 
placed  it  just  as  I  had  found  it,  broke  off  the  yarn  and  threw  the 
needle  into  the  pig-pen,  and  then  went  home  and  remained  with  my 
Aunt  Lavinia  the  rest  of  the  day. 

She  begged  me  to  go  away  and  not  worry  her ;  but  I  kept  near  by, 
and  she  could  not  get  rid  of  me. 

The  next  morning,  as  I  saw  Be'.sy  Dot  coming,  with  head  erect 
and  quickened  stej),  towards  our  house,  I  felt  a  weakness  coming 
over  my  limbs,  and  sat  down,  tiying  to  look  unconcerned. 

The  woman  entered,  and  looking  unutterable  tilings,  conunenced  : 
"Well,  you  have  done  it  this  time !  This  beats  all  the  capers  /ever 
heard  of  in  wy  born  days." 

She  went  on  in  this  strain  until  my  Aunt  Mercy  interrupted  lier, 
bidding  her  to  tell  what  the  child  had  done. 

They  must  see  for  themselves,  she  said,  for  no  one  could  believe 
it  on  her  word  alone.     And  forthwith  she  told  her  story. 

In  answer  to  my  aunt's  interrogations,  I  said  :  "  Mrs.  Dot  is  bound 
to  get  me  into  trouble.  She  accuses  me  of  stealing  first  her  berries 
and  then  her  carpet ;  and  now  she  says  1  have  been  helping  her  to 
weave." 

At  my  mention  of  the  word  carpet,  "All !  "  exclaimed  Dame  Dot, 
"  you  vixen  !  I  know  now  what  you  did  it  for  ;  "  and  slie  began  another 
I'olley  of  objurgation  far  more  forcible,  than  elegant. 

Aunt  I  .avinia,  who  was  very  much  given  to  scolding  nie  herself, 
would  take  my  part  against  any  one  else.  She  iirotested,  that  I  had 
not  left  the  house.     "  I  told  her  several  times  to  go  out,"  said  she^ 


AN   ALIBI, 


41 


3ins  I  could 

ft)!',  on  ac- 

;le  from  one 

0  make  the 

fingers  into 
;n  it  broke, 
oom,  wlicre 
ooni  topsy- 
;  of  yarn,  at- 
(11c  into  tlie 
)\v  fastened 
the  hat  and 

1  threw  the 
ed  with  my 

;])t  near  by, 

head  erect 
CSS  coming 

mmenced  : 
)ers  /ever 

rupted  lier, 

Id  believe 

it  is  bound 
ler  berries 
'ing  her  to 

)aine  Dot, 
an  another 

ne  herself, 
that  I  had 
'  said  sh(^ 


"  but  it  is  well  that  she  stayed  with  me,  since  people  are  so  ready  to 
invent  charges  against  her." 

My  Aunt  AFercy  remarked,  that  to  leave  the  house  open  was  to 
invite  strangers  in  ;  and  it  was  just  as  likely,  that  somebody  else  should 
be  the  culprit.  "That  is  the  strangest  thing  of  all,"  screamed  Betsy, 
stamping  her  foot  indignantly,  "that  1  found  every  door  and  window 
listened  just  as  1  had  left  them  ;  so  that  she  must  have  come  down 
the  chimney  or  have  false  keys."  My  aunt  then  doubted  the  whole 
story  ;  and,  as  Aunt  Lavinia  had  proved  an  alibi  for  me,  I  was 
honorably  act^uitted. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MV  mother's  tragic  end. 


Mv  sister  and  I  had  corresponded  regularly  ;  but  I  had  never  led 
her  to  suspect  how  miserable  I  was.  She  used  to  send  me  news- 
papers;  sometimes  the  "■  Home  Journal^' hwX.  constantly  the  "/"/<7^ 
of  Our  Union,''  a  journal  entirely  devoted  to  romances  and  trash.  I 
had  found  a  large  number  of  books  stored  in  a  closet.  They  had 
been  left  by  my  cousin  Lorin,  a  Methodist  minister.  I  would  take 
some  of  the  papers  and  books  into  the  woods  ;  and  instead  of  gather- 
ing fruit,  for  which  I  was  sent,  I  would  read  most  of  the  time. 
Although  in  my  fourteenth  year,  I  would  play  school  with  the  trees 
and  the  bushes ;  and,  while  reading  to  them,  I  always  took  a  note  of 
the  words  I  did  not  understand,  and  would  look  up  their  meaning  in 
the  dictionary,  when  I  got  home,  and  would  explain  them  to  the 
trees,  when  I  returned  to  the  woods. 

The  novels  had  filled  my  head  with  romantic  ideas,  and  I  used  to 
imagine  myself  some  meek  Cinderella,  and  a  gallant  knight  falling  in 
love  with  me  and  carrying  me  oft". 

I  was  constantly  copying  much  of  what  I  had  read,  so  as  to  learn 
how  to  spell.  When  my  aunt  would  scold  me  for  ^cuisting  so  much 
paper,  and  would  refuse  to  give  me  more,  1  would  tear  the  blank  leaves 
from  all  the  books  I  could  find ;  and,  after  tiiey  were  consumed,  I 
would  still  continue  to  copy  off  whole  pages  ou  the  margin  of  news- 
papers. 

One  day  my  aunt  caught  me  with  a  book  on  mythology,  which  I 


I 

1 

1 

43 


MY  SISTE!.   AGAIN. 


Iiad  found  in  tlie  closet.  She  asked  me  what  I  was  reading,  and 
sn;itched  it  out  of  my  hand.  I  tohl  her,  that  it  was  a  very  pious 
l)ook.  which  s|)oke  of  noliiing  but  gods.  She  took  it  from  me,  say- 
ing, lliat  1  was  healhon  enough,  witiiout  learning  their  religion  ;  and  I 
ha;l  better  slick  to  my  sewing,  instead  of  filling  my  head  with  such 
trash.  She  condemned  the  book  :  that  was  a  siiflkient  reason  to 
make  me  like  it ;  and  I  studied  it  until  I  knew  it  by  heart. 

One  day  I  found  my  sister  at  the  house.  We  hail  not  seen  each 
other,  since  my  father  died.  After  my  father's  deatii,  siie  had  passed 
through  man  vicissitudes,  and  at  last  learned  a  trade,  and  was  then 
earning  her  living  at  the  straw-hat  business. 

1  was  delighted  to  see  her,  and  we  embraced  as  affectionately,  as 
though  we  had  always  been  the  best  of  friends.  She  never  would 
have  known  me,  she  said.  My  nose  had  become  much  less  of  a  pug, 
and  the  whole  outlines  of  my  face  had  altered.  Yet  I  was  still  very 
slight,  short,  and  thin. 

I  did  not  see  her  alone,  till  we  weiit  to  bed.  The  first  thing  I 
did,  was  to  put  my  arms  around  her,  and  ask  her  to  tell  me  all  about 
my  father's  death.  She  answered  shari)ly  :  "  Never  mention  his 
name  to  me ;  for  I  hate  him  ;  it  was  a  good  thing  for  both  of  us  that 
he  died.     I  don't  see  how  you  could  love  such  a  man  ! " 

1  had  never  heard  one  word  of  the  particulars  of  my  father's  death. 
I  had  longed  for  years  to  s[)eak  with  my  sister  about  him.  Her  answer 
broke  the  slender  tie  of  affection,  which  our  correspondence  had 
caused  to  grow  between  us,  and  time  has  never  reunited  it. 

As  soon  as  I  recovered  myself, — for  I  was  choked  with  grief; — I 
ventured  to  say  to  her :  "  But  how  much  he  loved  you !  and  how 
good  he  was  to  you  ! "  She  replied:  "  He  loved  me  more,  than  he 
did  his  own  children,  and  his  dying  words  were  :  '  I  know  that 
my  children  will  be  well  cared  for,  but  what  will  become  of  (ieorg- 
ina?'"  "Those  were  his  dying  words!"  I  exclaimed.  "Yes," 
she  replied,  "he  repeated  them  till  he  died."  "But,"  said  1, 
"  how  then  can  you  hate  him  ?  "  She  answered  :  "  How  can  you 
lot.:  him?"  and  she  began  to  enumerate  his  faults  ;  faults,  of  which 
I  knew  nothing  ;  but  I  only  wept  the  harder,  and  loved  him  more, 
when  I  found,  that^  she  had  shed  no  tear  for  him.  I  spoke  of  his 
kindness  to  the  poor.  "Ah,"  said  she,  "that  was  the  worst  fault 
he  had  ;  he  would  give  away  his  last  penny,  and  leave  his  children  tc 
starve." 


"THE   WAY  OF  THE   TRANSGRESSOR. 


43 


lading,  and 
very  pious 
in  me,  say- 
ion  ;  and  I 
I  with  sucii 
reason  to 

seen  each 

lad  passed 
d  was  then 

^nately,  as 
;ver  would 
i  of  a  pug, 
s  still  very 

rst  thing  1 
;  all  about 
;ntion  his 
of  us  that 

er's  death, 
er  answer 
ence   had 

grief;— I 

and  how 

,  than  he 

now  that 

)f  (ieorg- 

"Yes," 

said    1, 

can  you 

of  which 

iin  more, 

ke  of  his 

orst  fault 

lildren  tc 


I  asked  my  sister  about  our  mother ;  where  she  was  living,  and  if 
she  was  as  bad  as  ever.  She  lost  control  over  her  temper,  and 
answered  angrily  :  "  I  don't  believe,  that  you  even  take  the  trouble 
to  read  my  letters  ;  for  I  wrote  to  you,  over  two  years  ngo,  that  she 
was  dead."  I  told  her,  that  I  had  received  a  letter,  in  which  she 
had  merely  said  :  "  Your  parents  are  both  dead  now  ;  "  and  that  [ 
tiiought  she  had  written  thus,  to  blind  the  country  people,  who  might 
want  to  find  my  mother,  in  order  to  send  me  to  her.  I  then  made 
haste  to  soothe  my  sister  by  saying,  that  I  was  very  glad,  that  our 
mother  was  dead.  I  felt,  that,  if  she  was  glad  at  my  father's  death, 
because  he  was  bad,  she  must  be  more  glad,  that  our  mother  was  dead. 
lint,  as  I  said  the  words,  she  pushed  her  hand  towards  me,  as  though 
she  would  strike  me.  "  Yes,"  said  she,  "you  arc  like  everybody 
else  ;  you  blame  her  for  everything.  She  was  not  half  as  bad,  as 
your  father."  "  She  was  had  enough,  anyhow  ; "  said  I,  "  and,  if 
she  had  beaten  you,  as  she  beat  me,  you  would  not  love  her  much." 
"  Slie  hated  you,"  she  answered,  "because  you  were  St.  John's 
child.  She  knew,  that  it  would  be  found  out,  that  I  was  not  his 
child.  She  was  afraid,  that  you  might  rise  above  rne  some  day  ;  and, 
to  avert  that  danger,  she  exposed  your  father's  perjury.  But,"  she 
continued,  "if  you  knew  how  our  mother  repented,  before  she  died, 
of  all,  that  she  had  done,  you  woukl  not  feel  as  you  do  towards 
her. 

"  It  grieved  her  to  death,  to  be  separated  from  her  children  ;  and  the 
^ne  thing,  that  prevented  her  from  killing  herself,  was  the  hope  of 
seeing  them  once  more.  This  separation  drove  her  to  distraction  ; 
and  she  died  insane  on  IJlackwell's  Island.  After  her  death,  your  let- 
ter, in  answer  to  mine  informing  you  of  your  father's  death,  was  found 
in  her  bosom  ;  and  it  was  buried  with  her." 

When  my  sister  told  me  this,  I  wept  bitterly.  In  that  moment  I 
forgave  my  mother  everything.  I  felt,  in  spite  of  her  faults,  the  in- 
tensest  pity  for  her  suffering  ;  for  I  too  had  suffered  ;  and,  if  she  had 
been  alive  at  that  hour,  I  would  have  gone  to  her. 

My  sister  told  me,  that  the  money,  which  she  had  received  from 
the  sale  of  my  father's  pictures  and  clothing,  she  had  divided  with  our 
mother  ;  that  she  used  to  give  her  a  part  of  her  wages,  when  she  was 
only  earning  six  shillings  a  week;  and  that  she  had  clung  to  her,  as 
'ong  as  she  lived. 

My  mother  had  often  been  arrested  for  intemperai  ce  ;  and  my  sis 


44 


A   MANIAC  S   CELL. 


u 


1  '  » 


ter  had  always  done  everything  possible  for  her,  wliile  in  prison.  The 
keepers  would  try  to  keei)  her  away ;  saying,  that  it  was  no  place  for 
a  girl  like  her  to  come  to.  But  Georgina  would  beg  so  hard,  to  see 
her  mother,  that  they  would  relent,  and  admit  lier,  and  the  warden 
would  treat  our  mother  more  kindly  on  her  account. 

At  last,  when  my  mother  was  sent  to  Blackwell's  Island,  my  sister 
would  often  prevail  upon  the  boatmen  to  let  her  go  over  with  the 
convicts  ;  and,  when  she  got  there,  our  mollier  would  be  always  wait- 
ing for  her  ;  and  her  first  words  would  be  :  "  Have  you  iieard  from  the 
children?     When  shall  I  see  them  again?" 

My  sister  told  me,  that  our  mother  had  repented  of  her  bad  life  ; 
that  she  had  made  several  efforts  to  reform,  since  my  fatiier  had  aban- 
doned her  ;  that  no  one  would  help  Jier ;  and  that  she  drank  to 
drown  her  thoughts.  In  her  last  imprisonment,  as  she  could  not  get 
liquor,  and  could  not  banish  thought,  remorse  and  grief  had  driven  her 
insane.  If  she  had  not  been  sent  to  tiie  "Island,"  she  might  have 
died  of  exposure  and  starvation.  For  no  one  would  employ  her,  or 
offer  her  a  niglu's  lodging;  and  hardly  anyone  would  give  her  a  mor- 
sel of  bread. 

A  thrill  of  horror  shot  through  me,  at  the  dreadful  recital  of  my 
mother's  last  days ;  yet  I  could  not  but  feel,  that  there  was  a  retribu- 
tive justice  in  her  tragic  end.  I  understood  not  then  the  nature  of 
her  chief  offence  ;  and  I  thought,  that  siie  nuisc  have  been  punished 
for  her  cruel  treatment  of  my  fiither  and  myself. 

A  remark  to  this  effect,  which  escaped  me,  enraged  my  sister ; 
and  she  began  to  heap  blame  upon  my  father.  Besides,  my  mothei  s 
own  mother  had  always  Ijcen  cruel  to  her,  and  had  turned  her  in  a 
the  street,  when  but  a  mere  child. 

"What,"  I  exclaimed,  "had  she  (7  bad  mother  tool  Then  I  pity 
her."  I  wanted  to  say,  but  I  dared  not :  "  Why  did  she  not  treat  her 
own  child  better,  liaving  buffered  so  herself?"  1  tried  to  (piiet  my 
sister;  for  she  h;ul  become  very  excited,  and  said,  that  she  wished, 
she  liad  never  come  near  me  :  that  she  thought,  by  my  letters,  I 
must  have  changed ;  but  she  found  me  the  same  torment  I  had  ev(>r 
been,  since  I  was  born. 

Thus  the  conversation  ended.  It  was  not  renewed,  until  sixteen 
years  later ;  when  my  sister  disclosed  to  me  other  facts,  in  regard  to 
n»y  mother,  which  I  will  reserve  for  their  proper  place. 


FORGIVENESS. 


45 


ison.     The 

0  place  for 
ard,  to  see 
the  warden 

,  my  sister 
LT  with  the 

1  ways  wait- 
rd  from  the 

r  bad  Hfe  ; 
•  had  aban- 
;  drank  to 
lid  not  get 
driven  her 
night  have 
loy  her,  or 
her  a  mor- 

ital  of  my 

>  a  retribu- 

nature  of 

a  punished 

ny  sister  ; 
y  inothei  s 
;d  her  in'  o 

hen  I  pity 
t  treat  her 
)  (luiet  my 
le  wished, 
letters,  I 
[  had  ever 

til  sixteen 
regaid  to 


Maria  Monk  is  now  long  dead.  Her  spirit  passed  away  in  a 
criminal  maniac's  cell.  She  was  my  mother,  and  I  hated  her.  But 
another  mother  has  since  taught  me,  that  I  must  love  my  erring 
parents,  altliough  th(.ir  vicious  lives  bequeathed  to  me  a  triple 
ori)lianagc  in  bereavement,  shame,  and  misery.  She  has  taught  me 
not  to  judge  my  motlier's  soul,  but  to  leave  her  to  her  God.  His 
creatures  know  not  that  soul's  tenii)tations,  nor  the  graces  He  may 
have  bestowed  on  it,  at  the  last  hour.  We  know,  that  she  had  a 
cruel  moliier,  and  had  been  misfortune's  prey,  from  her  childhood. 
We  know  how  she  lived,  and  erred,  and  suffered,  and  died.  But  we 
do  /lof  know  whether  suffering  did  not  wring  from  her  wretched  heart 
the  tear  of  true  repentance,  which  can  cleanse  and  soften  the  hardest 
heart.  We  know,  that  (lod  is  ever  good  and  merciful  ;  and  we  do 
noi  know,  that  Christ  may  not  have  taken  pity  on  her  tears,  and 
descended  in  mercy  to  brcatlie  upon  that  dying  maniac's  brow  peace 
and  pardon  for  her  sinful  soul.* 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

EVERVBODV's  HAND  AGAINST  ME,  AND  MINE  AGAINST  EVERYBODY. 

My  aunt  soon  discovered  how  much  my  sister  disliked  me ;  and 
t'lere  sjirang  up  a  strong  intimacy  between  them.  My  sister  ex- 
changed stories  with  her,  and  gave  her  a  long  account  of  my  early 
delinqencies.  I  had  nearly  driven  my  mother  wild  ;  and  there  had 
ne\er  been  any  peace  in  the  Iiouse  while  I  was  in  it.  I  was  just  like 
my  father  ;  and  would  i)robably  turn  out  just  as  he  had,  if  leff  to  have 
my  own  way.  My  mother  had  always  predicted,  that  I  would  come 
to  some  bad  end. 

I  began  to  wish,  that  my  sister  had  not  come ;  and  I  longed  for 
her  de[)arture. 

After  she  left,  my  lot  became  harder,  than  before.  My  aunt  was 
determined  to  concjuer  me  ;  and  showed  me  no  mercy.  She  often 
repeateil  to  me,  that  my  sister  had  told  her,  that  she  must  not  pay 
any  attention  to  my  tears,  wliicli  I  luul  always  at  command.  She 
now  made  me  go  barefooted  ;  ami  when  there  was  company,  I  was 
not  i)crmitted  to  sit  at  the  table  ;  and  when  her  nieces  would  come, 


46 


VANITY   VERSUS  NATURE. 


who  were  about  my  age,  and  had  always  been  my  playmates,  she 
would  not  permit  me  to  play  with  them  or  sleep  with  them.  She 
kept  me  continually  in  the  kitchen. 

In  spite  of  my  earnest  determination  to  be  happy,  all  this  would 
gall  me ;  and  1  would  weep  at  night,  long  after  the  >■  >st  were  asleep. 

My  aunt  Lavinia  died;  and  I  was  left  a  great  deal  alone.  ]\ly  aunt 
and  uncle  visited  a  great  deal ;  and  I  would  be  left  whole  days  by  my- 
self. I  would  pass  a  part  of  my  time  slud)ing,  and  the  other  part 
looking  in  the  glass.  I  had  heard  a  great  many  say,  that  I  was  grow- 
ing handsome.  This  turned  my  head  ;  for  1  had  always  been  taunt- 
ed with  my  ugly  looks.  I  no  soor.er  discovered,  that  1  was  admired, 
than  I  commenced  building  castles  in  the  air,  and  imagining  myself 
the  wife  of  a  prince.  I  no  longer  thought  of  Nature  ;  and  would  pass 
a  greater  part  of  my  spare  time  trying  to  arrange  my  hair  becomingly, 
making  muslin  mittens  to  protect  my  hands  and  arms  from  the  sun, 
and  arranging  ruffles  and  trinkets  of  all  sorts,  with  which  to  adorn 
myself.  One  of  the  first  things  my  sister  had  said,  on  seeing  me,  was  : 
"  But  where  is  your  pug  nose  ?"  "  It  is  gone,"  I  replied  ;  but  I  did 
not  tell  her  how  it  had  gone.  I  will  here  make  the  confession  to  the 
reader. 

The  school-children  used  to  tease  me  on  account  of  my  ill-shaped 
nose  ;  and  would  make  horrid  profiles  on  their  slates,  and  write  my 
name  under  them.  So  I  determined  to  bring  my  nose  down  into 
proper  projiortions.  At  night  I  would  take  a  long  garter  and 
fasten  it  around  my  face,  drawing  it  so  tightly  over  the  tip  of  my 
nose,  that  I  could  hardly  breathe  through  my  nostrils.  During 
the  day  I  used  to  pull  on  the  nose.  In  two  years  I  succeeded,  and  the 
jnig  had  disapi)eared.  How  much  did  I  not  suffer  for  this  vanity  ! 
It  would  often  bleed  copiously.  lUit  it  never  hurt  me  half  so  much, 
to  bring  my  nose  into  ^hape,  as  it  did  to  look  into  the  glass  and  sec, 
that  the  schoolchildren  had  been  drawing  correct  likenesses  of 
nie. 

I  always  carried  a  little  comb,  with  a  looking  glass  attached,  in  my 
pocket ;  and,  even  in  the  woods,  I  passed  a  grer.t  part  of  the  time 
looking  at  myself. 

The  more  perverted  I  became,  the  more  I  became  puffed  up  with 
self-esteem,  and  the  greater  became  my  contempt  for  my  persecutors; 
and  the  more  they  shunned  me,  the  more  I  esteemed  myself  above 
them. 


THE   PURSUIT   OF   KNOWLEDGE. 


47 


I  was  determined  to  gather  all  the  knowledge  I  could,  and  to  do  my 
own  will ;  no  matter  how  many  stripes  it  might  cost  me  ;  for  I  knew, 
that  1  never  could  be  a  lady,  unless  I  was  educated  ;  and  I  could  not 
educate  myself,  and  perform  faithfully,  the  duties  my  aunt  set  before 
me.  I  felt,  that  my  whole  future  was  at  stake  ;  and  I  set  myself 
•earnestly  to  work  at  my  task.  1  would  take  a  book  with  me  wher- 
ever I  went.  After  passing  the  whole  day  and  returning  with  little 
fruit,  a  sharp  reprimand  was  sure  to  await  me  ;  but  by  the  force  of 
my  will  I  rendered  myself  deaf  to  my  aunt's  vehement  threats  and 
just  reproaches.  She  supposed  my  silence  was  act-'ated  by  a  fear  to 
provoke  her  more,  and  a  desire  to  calm  her  anger;  which  it  often  had 
the  effect  of  doing.  But  the  good  woman  little  knew,  that  while  I 
stood  before  her,  my  mind  was  far  away,  imagining  myself  courted  and 
beloved  by  some  noble  heart,  that  would  lead  me  to  the  altar,  where 
would  he  blotted  out  the  name,  they  so  much  grudged  me,  and  I  should 
be  raised  above  my  misery  and  shame.  Sometimes  my  very  listless- 
ness  would  provoke  my  aunt  tiie  more,  and  she  would  give  vent  to 
her  indignation  by  giving  me  a  push,  that  would  send  me  reeling 
across  the  tloor. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


MY   UNCLE    IS    OF    OPINION,  Tn.'\T  THK    DEVIL    MUST  HAVE    BEEN  BORN 

IN    ME. 

One  day  I  was  rambling  in  the  forest.  It  was  early  spring  ;  and 
the  trees  were  just  putting  forth  their  leaves  and  blossoms.  Yielding 
to  the  influences  of  the  time  and  the  place,  I  fell  to  building  caslles  in 
the  air  ;  in  the  building  of  which  the  new  self-consciousness  produced 
by  my  vanity  had  no  small  part.  I  alternated  my  reveries  with  the  ad- 
miring of  myself  in  the  little  glass,  liut  my  dreams  were  suddenly 
interruptet',  and  v  castles  destroyed,  by  the  dread  of  njy  aunt's  dis- 
pleasure, when  i  iMuembered,  that,  meanwhile,  I  had  neglected  an 
errand,  upon  which  she  had  sent  me.  I  looked  round,  for  sympathy, 
to  the  trees,  and  talked  to  them,  as  of  old.  But  a  change  SL^..:'jd  to 
have  come  over  them.  For  though  all  was  beautiful,  as  ever,  yet 
nature  did  not  breathe  happiness  and  joy  to  me,  as  she  liad  (.lone  be- 


■»«'■ 


Ih' 


*«;  I 


I  I 


:H' 


i^:  , 


^8  I  MAKE  A   VOW. 

fore  ;  and  I  wondered,  that  my  spirit  could  be  darkened,  in  the  midst 
of  all  that  I  loved. 

I  childi..hly  wondered,  could  the  winter  just  passed  have  chilled 
nature's  love  for  inc.  I  knew  not  then,  tlial  it  was  my  own  iieart, 
that  was  chilled  by  the  breath  of  i^ride,  which,  drawing  me  to  self, 
nnist  needs  draw  me  from  the  heart  of  nature  ;  of  which  can  be  said, 
what  was  said  of  the  Wisdom,  that  created  it,  that  its  conversation  is 
witli  the  simple,  I  suddenly  exclaimed  :  "  I  know  what  if  is,  old 
friends !  you  despise  my  cowardly  fear  of  that  woman.  lUit  now  I 
swear  to  you,  that  1  will  never  show  my  face  among  you,  if  I  permit 
her  to  strike  me,  without  returning  the  blow."  I  raised  my  hand,  as 
I  swore,  and  sealed  the  vow  by  kissing  myself  in  the  glass.  Then  I 
threw  a  kiss  towards  the  mountains,  and  ran  home  with  the  courage 
of  a  lion.  Kut,  strange  to  say,  my  aunt  received  me  with  more  than 
wonted  kindness. 

I  had  met  Aunt  Huldah  one  da)',  and  shown  her  the  marks,  which 
Aunt  Mercy's  lashes  had  recently  left  on  my  arm.  She  was  much 
moved  at  the  sight,  and  told  me  to  come  to  her,  if  any  one  should  treat 
me  so  again.  Days,  weeks,  and  months,  passed  without  blows  ;  and 
I  feared  that  I  should  never  have  an  excuse  to  flee  to  Aunt  Huldah's 
protection. 

When  summer  came,  I  was  no  longer  sent  to  school  ;  and  would 
spend  most  of  my  time  in  the  woods ;  where  from  May  till  October, 
I  went  to  gather  berries  in  their  season.  I  drove  the  cows  to  and 
from  pasture ;  and  would  have  to  sit  for  hours  on  the  lawn,  watching 
for  the  swarming  of  the  bees.  But  amid  these  occupations  I  was  ever 
eager  to  learn,  and  found  constant  companionship  in  my  books. 

One  Sunday  I  heard  a  .Methodist  minisl'jr  denounce  Voltaire  from 
the  pulpit.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  the  name.  He 
commenced  by  saying  :  "  Voltaire  was  a  i)hiloso[ilier  ! "  and  he  re- 
located the  sentence.  "  Wliat  a  beautiful  name  ! "  I  exclaimed  to 
myself.  He  spoke  of  Voltaire's  learning,  his  genius,  and  the  wonder- 
ful versatility  of  his  gifts.  Then  he  denounced  him,  as  the  worst  of 
men,  for  having  abused  these  gifts  for  the  destruction  of  the  Cliristian 
religion  ;  aod  concluded  by  describing  his  death-bed  as  most  wretched 
and  harrowing.  The  sound  of  Voltaire's  name  had  charmed  me  :  ir 
spite  of  all  tlae  minister  said  against  him,  I  was  irresistibly  drawn  to 
wards  the  man,  whose  name  was  Voltaire.  I  kept  thinking  of  the 
name,  and  of  what   the  preacher  had  said.     VW'eks  afterwards,  I 


VOLTAIRE. 


49 


in  the  midst 

lavc  cliilled 
own  heart, 
nie  to  self, 

can  be  said, 
veisation  is 

xt  it  is,  old 
IJiit  now  I 
if  I  permit 

my  hand,  as 
iss.     Then  I 

the  courage 

I  more  than 

larks,  which 
■  was  mnch 
should  treat 
blows  ;  and 

II  Huldah's 


asked  my  uncle,  what  Voltaire  had  done,  that  the  minister  should 
abuse  him  so.  My  uncle  answered,  that  he  was  a  bad  man.  But  I 
insisted  u[)on  knowing  what  he  had  done.  A[y  uncle  lost  patience, 
and  said,  that  he  did  not  know  anything  about  him,  nor  did  he  wish 
to  know :  it  was  enough  for  him  to  hear  what  Brother  King,  (the 
preacher),  had  said ;  that  was  proof  enough  for  him,  that  V^oltaire 
was  a  scoundrel.  "Yes;"  said  I;  "but  perhaps  the  preacher  did 
not  speak  the  truth."  My  aunt,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  con- 
versation, flew  into  a  passion  and  said  :  "What,  do  you  even  dare  to 
doubt  the  preacher?"  "I  don't  know,"  said  I,  "anything  about  it ; 
but  I  felt  as  though  he  was  lying  about  the  man.  VV'hat  a  pretty 
name  he  has,  Voltaire,  Voltaire  !  "  At  these  words  my  uncle  joined 
in  with  my  aunt,  and  said,  that  it  was  plain,  that  it  did  me  no  good 
to  go  to  meeting ;  that  the  devil  must  have  been  born  in  me. 
"  Yes  ! "  exclaimed  my  aunt,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  was  sufficient,  that 
Brother  King  should  say,  that  Voltaire  was  a  sinner,  to  make  her 
like  him ;  and  she  wants  to  know  all  about  him.  in  order  to  imitate 
him,  I  suppose." 


and  would 
ill  October, 
ows  to  and 
n,  watching 
i  I  was  ever 
ooks. 

.)ltaire  from 
lame.  He 
and  he  re- 
:claimed  to 
lie  wonder- 
le  worst  of 
.'  Christian 
t  wretched 
ed  me  :  ir 

drawn  to 
ing  of  the 
t;r wards,  I 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I    KEEP    MY   VOW  ;    BUT    I-OSE    MY    FRIENDS. 

I  WAS  now  in  my  fifteenth  year.  One  morning,  as  I  was  starting 
for  school,  my  aunt  Mercy  asked  peremptorily  for  an  article,  I  had 
been  using  the  day  before,  and  said,  that  I  should  not  go  to  school, 
till  I  found  it. 

I  instantly  thought,  and  said,  that  she  but  sought  an  excuse  to 
keep  me  home  to  work. 

She  was  incensed ;  and,  seizing  me  by  the  arm,  she  struck  me  two 
severe  blows  over  the  shoulders  with  a  little  stick.  In  an  instant  I 
caught  her  by  the  hair,  and,  as  she  raised  her  arm  to  strike  another 
blow,  I  snatched  the  stick  from  her,  and  broke  it  over  her  head.  I 
then  fled  to  the  woods  ;  where  I  lurked  for  several  hours ;  and,  in 
the  afternoon,  I  started  for  A-.L  Huldah's.  When  I  told  her,  that  I 
had  come  to  live  with  her,  she  indignantly  commanded  me  to  go 
home.  I  reminded  her  of  her  promise  to  take  me,  if  any  one  should 
dare  to  strike  me  again.  She  would  not  admit,  that  she  had  made 
3 


so 


AUNT  nULDAH   AND   I. 


such  promise,  "And  besides,"  she  added,  "do  you  think,  that 
Horace  would  carry  my  butter  and  eggs  to  the  station,  if  1  should 
step  in  between  you  and  them?" 

"Now  be  a  good  girl,"  she  said  soothingly,  "  and  run  home."  She 
went  on  to  say,  that  her  health  was  so  poor,  that  she,  could  not  get 
along  without  "heli),"  and  t'le  tather  of  the  "  help"  would  never  let 
her  remain  in  the  same  house  with  me.  "And  I  don't  blame  him  for 
that  ;"   she  adiled. 

1  offered  to  take  the  place  of  the  "help."  "VVhai:"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  you  be  my  help  !  I  wouldn't  give  a  good  broom  for  a 
dozen  like  you.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  the  hard  times  Mercy  has  to 
bring  you  up.  7MI  you  care  for,  is  to  gad  the  lots.  Nobody  could 
ever  make  anything  decent  out  of  you.  One  thing  is  certain,  I  am 
not  going  to  be  bothered  with  yon." 

"But,"  said  1,  "I  thought  you  would  be  good  to  me  on  my 
father's  account."  She  hesitat-jd  a  moment,  shook  her  head,  and 
said  very  gravely  :  "  I  am  not  so  sure,  that  you  are  his  child."  I  still 
entreated,  and  said,  that  1  should  never  go.  At  last  she  said  :  "  You 
will  sleep  on  the  door-ste])  then,  for  I  cannot  permit  you  to  stay 
in  the  house;"  and  with  that  she  gave  me  a  push  toward  the 
door. 

I  had  learned  from  Aimt  Huldah,  diat  my  brother,  the  "  helj)," 
and  another  girl  had  gone  to  the  river  to  fish;  and,  when  repulsed 
from  her  house,  I  hastened  to  join  them.  As  I  went,  the  country 
appeared  more  beautiful,  than  ever.  I  felt  free  once  more  ;  for  I 
was  determined  to  live  in  the  woods,  sooner  than  return  to  my 
uncle's  house.  My  bosom  began  to  glow,  as  it  did  in  former  days, 
when  I  used  to  loiter  for  hours,  and  converse  with  nature.  The  sky 
was  a  deep  blue,  filled  with  massive  snow-white  clouds  ;  and  the  whole 
landscape  was  draped  in  the  varied  and  beauteous  colors  peculiar 
to  our  American  autumn.  I  paused  at  every  step  to  look  upon  the 
scene,  every  now  and  then  e.xc-.laiming :  "  IJeautifid  country  !  why 
are  not  the  people  like  you?"  and  I  would  stooj)  and  kiss  the 
ground.  I  wished,  that  I  too  were  one  with  irrational,  or  even  inani 
mate,  nature  ;  and  then  my  position  thrust  itself  upon  me,  and  I  wept. 

When  I  reached  the  river,  my  brother  handed  me  his  fishing-rod, 
that  1  might  fish  a  while.  Presently  he  annoyed  the  two  girls  by 
some  trifle,  and  both  attacked  him. 

When    I   saw  this,  I  dropped   pole  and   line  into   the  river,   and 


PLUCK. 


51 


.1  think,  that 
1,  if  I  should 

home."  She 
:onl(l  not  get 
)iild  never  let 
)lanie  him  for 

ai ;  "  she  ex- 
brooin  for  a 
Mercy  has  to 
Jobody  could 
certain,  I  am 

me  on  my 
:r  head,  and 
liid."  1  still 
said  :  "  V'ou 
you   to  stay 

toward   the 

the  "help," 
len  repulsed 
the  coimtry 
more  ;  for  I 
Jturn  to  my 
former  days, 
e.  The  sky 
k1  the  whole 
lors  peculiar 
ok  ujjon  tiie 
luntry  !  why 
nd  kiss  the 
■  even  inani 
and  I  wept, 
fishing-rod, 
rto  girls  by 

'  river,   and 


sprang  upon  them.  I  took  my  brother  away,  and  sent  him  home  ; 
and  then  began  a  furious  fight  between  me  and  the  two  girls,  which 
ended  in  their  running  away.  When  at  a  safe  distance,  they  loaded 
me  with  opprobrious  names. 

On  my  return,  Aunt  Huldah  received  me  with  open  arms ;  for  my 
brother  had  told  her  how  I  had  fought  for  bun. 

"  Well,  you  have  good  blood  in  you,  anyhow ; "  said  she,  "  no 
matter  where  you  come  from.  I  will  be  your  friend.  I  like  peo])le, 
that  can  tight ;  but,"  she  added,  "  I  am  afraid,  that  that  is  all,  that 
you  are  good  for  ; "  and  she  laughed. 

My  pugnacity  purchased  me  a  bed  for  the  night,  at  least. 

The  next  morning  Aunt  Huldah  had  come  once  more  to  a  lively 
sense  of  the  great  inconvenience  of  protecting  me.  She  offered  to 
accompany  me  home ;  but  I  protested  that  I  would  never  go  into 
the  house,  unless  they  would  promise  never  to  strike  me. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  house,  my  aunt  Mercy  angrily  forbade 
me  to  enter,  till  I  should  consent  to  take  the  whipping  and  beg  par- 
don on  my  knees.  I  defiantly  refused  to  submit,  and  said,  that  if 
they  \  nild  give  me  my  clothes,  I  would  never  trouble  them  again. 
My  aunt  Huldah  tried  to  extenuate  her  own  fault,  in  harboring  me, 
by  telling  how  she  had  at  first  repulsed  me  ;  and  to  say  something 
in  my  favor,  by  telling  how  well  I  had  fought  for  my  brother.  Her 
tactics  did  not  succeed  ;  for  her  praises  of  my  pluck  but  added  fuel 
to  their  indignation  ;  and  they  answered  her  very  sharply.  She  in 
return  taimted  Aunt  Mercy  for  her  cruelty  to  the  orphan  child  of 
Mr.  St.  John,  and  ended  by  promising  to  pay  my  board  with  any 
one,  who  would  take  me. 

As  my  aunt  Huldah  descended  the  hill,  I  took  the  road  towards  the 
mountain,  little  caring  where  I  went  or  Avhat  became  of  me. 

My  heaviness  of  heart  grew  less  at  every  step,  as  I  hastened  from 
die  house.  1  walked  about  a  (piarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  threw  my- 
self down  by  the  side  of  the  road,  under  a  large  chestnut-tree,  near 
to  a  neat  little  cottage  surrounded  by  fruit-trees.  My  heart  went  out 
towards  that  little  cottage,  and  I  wished  it  were  mine.  I  could  be 
perfectly  happy,  I  fancied,  if  I  owned  such  a  home,  and  could  live 
by  myself,  and  do  as  I  pleased.  It  was  situated  in  an  isolated  and 
picturesque  spot.  Nature  never  displayed  her  charms  more  peace- 
fully and  lovingly,  than  she  does,  at  every  season  of  the  year,  in  the 
country,  which  surrounds  this  little  cottage.      I   would  doubt  the 


53 


HOMELESS. 


t':/ 


■    (• 


morality  of  anj'  one,  who  could  stand  on  ti;ai  fj '>'.  .  nd  remain  un- 
moved at  nature's  aspect;  Avhose  heart  w-.  i;o>  ' 'stinctively 
raise  itself  to  (iod  with  thankfulness  for  the  gift  of  life,  o...<\  sense  to 
enjoy  His  wondrous  works.  As  I  gazed  on  that  lovely  landscape, 
I  forgot  my  wretched  existence  ;  I  forgot  that  1  was  an  or|)han,  with- 
out a  home,  and  with  hardly  a  friend  in  the  world. 

When,  after  a  little,  I  saw  that  I  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
inmates  of  the  cottage,  I  walked  on  until  I  was  out  of  sight,  at  a  spot, 
where  the  road  was  bordered,  on  one  side,  by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  and, 
on  the  (>lher,  by  a  beautiful  pond.  I  sat  on  the  ledge  of  rocks  and 
looked  intently  at  the  reflexion  of  the  sky  in  the  water  of  the  pond ; 
when  suddenl}-  a  gust  of  wind  arose,  and  the  placid  surface  was  cov- 
ered with  numberless  waves.  A  trenior  came  over  me  :  I  rushed 
down  from  the  rocks,  knelt  in  the  road  by  the  edge  of  the  pond,  and 
burst  into  a  Hood  of  tears.  For  a  moment  I  was  bewildered  ;  I  knew 
not  what  had  brought  me  down  so  suddenly,  nor  why  I  wept.  I 
rose  to  my  feet,  impatiently  dashed  the  tears  from  my  eyes,  and  was 
about  to  climb  the  rocks  again,  when  I  cast  another  glance  at  the 
water,  and  again  saw  the  waves.  I  dropped  on  my  knees,  buried  my 
face  in  my  hands,  and  wept  long  and  bitterly.  Ah,  those  waves  !  I 
understood  at  last.  They  spoke  to  me  of  my  father :  of  the  days, 
when  we  would  cross  the  river  together,  and  when,  as  tiie  boat  touch- 
ed the  wharf,  he  would  have  to  drag  me  along  by  the  hand,  as  I 
would  linger  to  catch  a  last  look  at  the  waves. 

I  remained  on  my  knees  looking  at  the  waves  for  a  long  time  : 
every  ripple  would  bring  a  fresh  outburst  of  tears  ;  and  I  could  once 
more  hear  my  fiithet's  voice,  as  lie  used  to  say  :  "  Come  along.  Tick, 
I  shall  have  to  carry  you,  if  you  don't."  I  looked  up  to  heaven,  and 
cried  imploringly:  "Father,  father!"  At  last  the  breeze  ceased, 
the  water  became  tranquil,  and  so  did  my  breast.  As  1  turned  to 
climb  the  rocks,  1  looked  over  at  the  mountain,  and  saw,  that  the 
sun  had  just  set.  I  ran  a  few  steps  towards  my  uncle's  cottage,  be- 
fore I  remembered  what  had  happened  :  then  I  turned  and  ran  the 
other  way. 


\i 


id  remain  un- 

'  ""stinctively 

i)...u  sense  to 

i\y  landscape, 

ori)han,  with- 

tention  of  tlie 
i;ht,  at  a  spot, 
if  rocks,  and, 
of  rocks  and 
of  the  pond ; 
face  was  cov- 
le  :  I  rushed 
le  pond,  and 
ired  ;  I  knew 
r  I  wept.      I 
k'es,  and  was 
lance  at  the 
:s,  buried  my 
se  waves  !  I 
of  the  days, 
boat  touch- 
;  hand,  as  I 

long  time  : 
could  once 

along,  Tick, 
heaven,  and 
y/.c  ceased, 
I  turned  to 
aw,  that  the 
cottage,  be- 
an d  ran  (he 


:ri 


I 


l\ 


i\ 


/" 


TAMING  A  LION. 


53 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


I    BEO'ME    READER   TO    A    SHOEMAKER. — HIS    OPINION    OF    ME. 


At  a  sliort  distance  from  the  pond  lived  a  shoemaker,  who  was 
cross-grained,  conceited,  and  miserly,  and  had  never  been  known  to 
speak  a  good  word  of  any  one.  He  disliked  everybody,  and  particu- 
larly myself ;  but,  as  he  was  fond  of  money,  I  was  sure  he  would  take 
me,  when  I  would  tell  him,  that  Aunt  Hiildah  would  pay  him. 

W!ien  I  entered  his  cottage,  he  received  me  with  a  sort  of  growl ; 
but  I  ran  up  to  him,  as  tliough  he  were  my  best  friend,  and  told  him 
what  Aunt  lluldah  had  said,  and  that  I  had  chosen  his  house,  be- 
cause it  was  near  the  woods.  He  then  told  me  to  sit  down,  and 
that  Polly  (his  wife)  would  get  me  something  to  eat.  I  went  to  bed 
however  without  my  sui)per ;  for  they  had  nothing  in  the  house,  that 
I  could  eat.  The  next  morning  it  was  the  same  thing,  lint  I  went 
into  the  garden,  gathered  son)e  green  apples,  which  I  roasted,  and 
then  took  some  broad  and  browned  it ;  and  this,  with  a  glass  of 
water,  made  my  breakfast. 

In  the  house  of  this  shoemaker,  there  were  a  bureau  and  table 
loaded  with  novels.  He  handed  me  one,  and  begged  me  to  read 
aloud  to  him,  while  he  worked.  I  did  so.  After  reading  to  him  for 
several  i.ays,  he  began  to  si)eak  kindly  to  me ;  which  really  touched 
me.  His  wife  kept  constantly  repeating,  that  she  hoped  I  would 
always  stay  witli  them,  because  Eleazar  had  never  been  so  good- 
natured  before. 

Two  children  came  to  the  door  one  day,  to  jeer  at  me.  The  shoe- 
maker defended  me  so  warmly,  that  I  felt  happy,  that  I  had  a  friend ; 
and  1  tried  in  every  way  to  please  him. 

Days  passed  on.  My  only  diet  was  cold  water,  burnt  bread,  and 
green  apples  or  peaches  roasted  or  stewed.  1  grew  very  weak.  I 
exerted  myself  to  the  utmost  to  read ;  but  I  could  hardly  speak 
aloud.  Then  the  shoemaker  became  cross,  and  began  to  ill-treat 
me.  He  would  tell  me,  that  the  neighbors  had  said,  that  h^  would 
foon  fmd  me  out.  He  would  repeat  to  me  how  he  had  defended  me, 
and  how  he  had  succeeded  in  enlisting  the  sympathies  of  others  for 
me  i  and  how  a  great  many,  from  what  he  had  said,  blamed  my  aunt 


54 


EXIT  FROM   THE   DEN. 


i 


III 
I, 


i 


for  her  cruel  treatment.  I  was  so  ])lease(l  to  hoar  this,  that  it  gave 
nie  strcngtli  to  read  a  hltle  farther  ; — but,  if  he  happened  to  be  inter- 
ested at  the  moment  1  jjaused,  he  would  hold  up  a  long  strnp,  and 
make  a  UK^tion  towards  me,  as  if  I-.,  would  strike  me  ;  and  he  would 
say,  that  he  had  always  thought,  that  1  was  an  imp  of  the  old  bo)- ; 
but  now  he  was  sure  of  it. 

One  day,  when  I  had  fainted  from  want  of  food  ;  instead  of  sym- 
pathy, I  only  excited  the  shoemaker's  wrath,  and  provoked  his  abuse. 
1  awoke  the  next  morning  with  the  feeling,  that  he  had  become  as  in- 
tolerable, as  my  aunt.  1  left  his  house,  without  saying  a  word,  and  ran 
across  the  lots  to  my  uncle's,  so  as  not  to  pass  the  neighbors'  houses. 
My  aunt  met  me,  saying  :  "  You  look  half  starved."  The  truth  then 
flashed  upon  me,  that  the  cause  of  my  weakness  was  want  of  food. 
I  told  her,  that  I  had  come  for  my  clothes,  and  lliat  1  was  sure  Aunt 
Huldah  would  as  soon  pay  my  fare  to  New  Yoik,  as  pay  my  board. 
She  urged  me  to  wait  at  least  until  spring,  and  told  me,  that  I  miglit 
come  back  to  her  house  ;  but  that  I  should  never  expect  to  be 
treated  again  //Xr  o^/c  of  the  family ;  for  they  could  never  forgi/e 
what  1  had  done.  The  wh(jle  country,  she  said,  was  abusing  I'ncK: 
Horace  and  herself,  on  account  of  the  reports,  which  the  sht)emaker 
had' been  spreading.  I  told  her  she  might  scold,  as  nnich  as  she 
chose,  but  that  she  should  never  strike  me.  This  she  promised  ; 
and  1  remained  with  her,  and  never  went  back  to  inform  the  shoe- 
maker; who  abus';d  me  everywhere  for  my  ingratitude. 


CHArTER  XVII. 


MY    ENTliAN'CE    IXTO    THE    WIDf.-WIDE    WORLD, 


On  the  lytJi  of  March,  1853,  ^  ^^''^^  fifteen  years  old.  It  was  ar- 
ranged, that  one  of  my  father's  brothers,  and  his  family,  should  come 
to  si)end  the  summer  at  Uncle  Horace's.  I  jMotested  indignantly, 
diat  I  should  leave  before  they  came  ;  that  1  would  never  be  a  ser- 
vant to  one  of  my  father's  brothers,  who  had  refused  to  receive  him, 
and  who  jiersisted  in  regarding  my  brother  and  myself  as  illegitimate 
children.      My  protests  were  answered,  sometimes  by  argument  to 


MAN   AND   WIFE. 


w 


prove  to  nie  my  folly,  and  sometimes  by  derision,  and  angry  outbursts, 
on  the  part  of  my  uncle  and  aunt.  I  never  yielded  to  either;  and 
my  persistence  finally  induced  my  uncle  Horace  to  seek  a  situation 
{or  mc  ;  which  he  found  in  a  family,  in  the  village  of  Kent,  Connecti- 
cut, about  five  miles  from  his  house.  This  family  kept  a  little  "  variety" 
shop,  and  made  calico  shirf>^  for  the  trade.  I  was  to  assist  in  the 
housework,  and  mi^fh*;  sew  the  .est  of  the  time ;  and  1  was  to  be  paid 
for  tlie  shirts  I  might  make,  at  the  rate  of  /en  cents  ;\.  piece.  I  gladly 
accepted  the  i)lace,  as  the  alternative  of  the  dreaded  humiliation  of 
acting  the  menial  to  the  fiimily  of  my  father's  brother. 

My  aunt  and  I  (piarrelled,  because  of  my  demand  for  the  elegant 
garments,  which  my  father  had  given  me.  She  wished  to  give  them 
to  her  niece  ;  and  I,  although  I  had  outgrown  them,  desired  to  have 
them,  as  mementoes  of  my  fadier.  She  yielded  most  reluctantly ;  but, 
to  punish  me,  deprived  me  of  some  of  the  clothes,  which  I  needed 
for  actual  use. 

My  uncle  came  and  ]>laced  my  trunk  on  the  wagon.  I  got  half- 
way down  die  stairs;  when  I  went  back,  and  kissed  the  sill  of  my  lit- 
tle bedroom,  saying:  "Little  room,  I  bid  you  along,  a  fond  farewell." 
The  little  dog  came  running  up  to  me.  I  kissed  him  on  the  forehead, 
and  bade  him,  too,  good-by ;  and  I  then  rushed  out  of  the  house ; 
for  my  heart  softened  at  the  thought,  that  I  might  never  see  it  again. 
My  aunt  bade  me  a  formal  good-by,  without  a  kis  or  a  kind  word. 
I  sprang  into  the  wagon,  and  my  uncle  drove  off.  I  glanced  over 
at  the  west  mountains,  and,  with  a  wave  of  my  hand,  bade  them 
adieu. 

As  we  drove  along,  my  uncle  spoke  very  kindly  to  me,  and  said, 
that  he  was  very  sorry  to  have  me  go  away ;  that  he  had  always  liked 
me  ;  and  that  he  would  have  done  more  for  me  ;  "  but,"  said  he,  "you 
know  how  I  am  situated ;  a  man  has  to  please  his  wife ;  and  your 
aunt  Mercy  is  one  of  the  best  women,  in  the  world ;  but  you  must 
alwa\  s  let  her  have  her  own  way." 

When  we  arrived  at  my  new  home,  and  my  uncle  bade  me  good- 
by,  he  begged  me  to  be  a  good  girl  and  write  to  him.  "  I  will  never 
write  to  you,"  said  1,  "  nor  will  you  ever  see  me  again,  until  I  am  a 
lady." 

I  remained  at  my  new  home  just  two  weeks.  I  arose  at  four  in 
the  morning,  and  worked  so  steadily,  that  I  fell  ill.  I  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  family,  that  resided  next  door.      It  consisted  of 


s 
s 


5*  <■ 


56 


THE  MERCY   OF   STRANGERS. 


a  lawyer  and  his  wife.  They  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  invited  me  tc 
stay  at  their  house  a  few  weeks.  Thrre  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
some  of  the  best  i)eopIe  in  the  town,  and  was  treated  bj'  everybody 
like  a  lady.  Tlie  lawyer's  wife  lent  me  her  clothing,  and  tried  to 
dress  me  well,  when  I  went  out  to  drive  or  to  cliurch  :  and  for  that 
too  brief  period  1  found  it  better  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  strangers  than 
to  live  with  my  relations,  and  '■'■be  treated  like  one  of  the  family" 


r^ 


I 


« 


. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


THE    STRUGGLE    FOR    UFK. 


The  moment  my  sister  '"•new,  that  I  had  left  my  uncle's  house,  she 
came  to  see  me,  and  took  me  back  with  her  to  New  York.  She  was 
emploved,  and  boarded,  at  a  straw-hat  establishment  in  the  J5owery  ; 
and  I  was  permitted  to  stay  with  her,  for  a  little  while,  till  1  could 
get  employment. 

I  tried  for  some  time  in  vain  to  get  a  situation.  My  applications 
were  often  met  with  the  answer,  that  I  was  too  small,  and  too  deli- 
cate, to  work. 

One  morning  I  co...menccd  in  Broadway,  at  Fourteenth  street,  and 
stoi)ped  at  every  "fancy"  shop,  asking  for  employment.  My  ap- 
pearance was  so  much  against  me,  that  after  a  hurried  glance,  the 
a'^swer  was  invariably  one  of  those  '-no's,"  from  which  there  is  no 
ap[K-al.  My  heart  kept  growing  sadder  and  sadder,  until  I  passed 
Bleecker  street ;  when  I  .saw  in  a  window  a  card  slating,  that  three 
hundred  sewing-girls  were  wanted.  Tlie  forewoman  of  that  establish- 
ment engaged  me  at  tl  ree  dollars  and  a  half  a  week ;  and  1  went  to 
board  with  the  family  of  one  of  the  sewing-girls. 

It  was  a  very  poor  Irish  family,  whose  humble  home  was  often  but 
scantily  provided  with  fuel  and  food,  but  ever  lighted  up  with  cheer- 
fulness. 

I  told  my  story  to  ihe  forewoman  of  the  establishment ;  an  inti- 
macy soon  sprang  up  between  us  ;  and  she  got  me  a  situation,  as  fore- 
woman in  a  children's  clothing  establii  hment  in  Broadway,  owned  by 
Mrs.  Dwinelle. 

Ill  my  new  situation  I  had  higher  wages  and  much  less  to  do.     I 


*c. 


A  NUN  S   CHARITY. 


57 


1  invited  me  to 
:quaintance  of 

1)}'  everybody 
;,  and  tried  to 

:  and  for  tliat 
strangers  than 
he  family" 


le's  house,  she 
ork.  She  was 
1  the  JJuwery  ; 
.',  till   1   could 

y  apjjHgations 
and  too  deH- 

nth  street,  and 
lent.  My  ap- 
L'd  glance,  the 
h  there  is  no 
mtil  I  passed 
ing,  liuU  three 
tiiat  establish- 
and  1  went  to 

was  often  but 

ip  with  chcer- 

lent ;  an  inti- 
ation,  as  fore- 
'ay,  owned  by 

:ss  to  do.     I 


resided  with  the  family,  and  was  treated  like  a  member  of  it.  Mrs. 
Dwinelle  and  her  husband  would  often  remark,  that  they  would  like 
to  see  me  accomplished ;  and  regretted,  that  they  were  not  able  to 
send  me  to  school. 

One  day,  as  several  of  Mrs.  Dwinelle's  friends  were  speaking  of  my 
going  to  school,  one  of  them  said,  that  the  Catholics  v.'ould  be  most 
likely  to  take  a  scholar  gratis.  1  decided  at  once  on  the  first  step  I 
would  take. 

I  had  often  jiassed  through  Houston  street,  and  used  always  to 
linger,  as  I  passed  St.  Catherine's  Convent,  with  an  almost  irresistible 
desire  to  go  in.  So,  the  next  day,  I  went,  and  was  kindly  received 
and  encouraged  by  the  Su[)erior.  She  told  me,  that  their  institution 
was  not  for  education,  but  sim[)ly  for  charity  ;  and  advised  me  to  go 
to  Madam  Hardey,  Sui)erior  of  tiie  Academy  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at 
Manhattanville. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  went  to  Manhattanville,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Dwinelle's  sister,  and  asked  for  Madam  Hardey  ;  who  in  a  few  mo- 
ments made  her  appearance.  She  invited  me  to  be  seated  beside 
her,  and  (|uestioncd  mc  about  myself. 

I  merely  told  her,  that  1  was  a  Miss  .St.  John  ;  that  1  was  poor,  and 
an  orphan  ;  that  1  wanted  to  educate  myself;  and,  if  she  would  take 
me,  1  would  be  forever  grateful. 

While  I  was  speaking,  Madam  Hardey  looljed  me  full  in  the 
face  :  she  did  not  ap|)ear  to  notice  my  companion.  Her  atten- 
tion was  drawn  from  me,  for  a  moment,  by  a  religious  coming 
in  and  asking,  "if  the  dog  should  go  with  them  too."  "Cer- 
tainly," replied  Afadam  Hardey;  "they  expect  to  see  the  dog, 
as  much  as  they  do  you."  As  she  spoke  those  words,  she  smiled 
so  sweetly,  and  her  face  lighted  up  so  beautifully,  that  I  felt  I 
cc  uld  be  happy  near  her;  and  I  waited  with  breathless  imi)atience 
for  her  rei)ly.  She  paused,  as  though  waiting  to  hear,  if  I  had  any- 
thing more  to  say ;  and,  as  1  looked  up  into  her  eyes  to  catch  her 
words,  she  spoke,  and  her  words  thrilled  my  very  soul.  She  said, 
iu  a  kind  decided  tone  :  "  I  will  take  you  ;  )ou  may  come  as  soon 
as  you  choose."  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  thanked  her  with  all  my 
heart.  I  had  never  met  a  stranger,  who  received  mc  so  kindl)-. 
My  friend  was  as  nuich  ujoved  by  Madam  llardey's  generous  man- 
ner, as  1  had  been  ;  and  she  dwelt  on  the  fact,  that  Madam  Hardey 
never  asked  for  a  reference,  but  look  luy  word. 
.3* 


\i 


k  I     ! 


i   li 


II ; 


58  AN   artist's    stratagem. 

It  appeared,  as  though  happiness  had  once  more  dawned  upon 
me. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  my  departure,  a  young  girl 
acxompanied  me  to  a  daguerrotypist's.  We  chiUhshly  told  the  man 
my  reason  for  having  my  ])ortrait  taken  on  that  day  ;  and  he  soon  liad 
the  whole  of  lh("  story.  He  several  times  incjuired  about  my  family. 
1  told  him  of  my  sister,  who  lived  very  near,  (and  I  gave  her  name 
and  address),  a  cross,  cruel  beauty,  who  cared  but  little  for  me; 
and  I  rattled  on  about  the  convent,  the  good  superior,  and  the  beau- 
tiful convent  grounds.  ]iut  at  the  word  convent,  he  would  knit  his 
brows,  shake  his  head,  and  abuse  the  Catiiolics.  He  tried  to  jjre- 
vail  on  me  not  to  go  ;  but  1  told  him,  that  notliing  in  the  world  could 
j)revent  me.  Suddenly  he  arose,  and  begged  us  to  excuse  him,  as 
he  had  an  engagement  down  the  street,  which  nu'ght  detain  him  ten 
minutes,  not  longer.     He  (  ame  back  api)earing  very  much  excited. 

1  little  suspected  the  trick  he  had  played  us.  The  daguerro- 
types  were  soon  dispatched ;  and  as  we  came  out,  I  saw  my  sister 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  I  tried  to  get  away  from  her ;  but 
she  soon  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  insisted  on  accompanying 
me  liome. 

After  an  introduction  to  the  Dwindles,  my  sister,  in  their  pres- 
ence, asked  me  to  accompany  lier  to  her  home.  I  tried  to  ex- 
cuse myself;  but  she  would  not  be  satislled,  till  at  last  1  lost  i)a- 
tience,  and  told  her  all.  She  calmly  replied,  that  she  was  well 
aware  of  it.  (The  daguerrotypist  had  told  her.)  I  defied  her. 
She  leaned  over,  and  whispered  in  my  oar  my  mother's  name.  She 
then  asked,  in  a  triumphant  manner:  "Now  will  you  go  home  with 
me  ? "  I  durst  not  refuse  ;  and  1  went  with  her.  She  upbraided 
me  at  every  step  for  giving  her  so  nuich  trouble. 

When  1  reached  her  home,  the  lady,  her  employer,  talked  to  me, 
as  if  I  had  connuilted  an  act  disgraceful  to  my  sister,  as  well  as  to 
myself  J  pleaded  in  extenuation  of  my  faidl,  that  1  wanted  to  be 
educated,  and  no  other  oi)portunity  had  offered. 

They  sneered  at  my  eagerness  for  improvement;  and,  when  1 
spoke  of  the  good  superior,  they  sneered  again. 

"After  all  your  mother  did  to  injure  the  Catholics,  how  dare  you 
go  among  them  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

I  replied,  that  they  did  not  know,  who  I  was. 

"  if  you  go  into  that  convent,"  she  thieaicned,  "  I  will  go  myself, 


FREQUENT   CHANGE  OF  BASE. 


59 


iwned  upon 

a  young  girl 
old  the  man 
he  soon  had 
t  111)'  family. 
■   her   name 
le  for  me  ; 
d  the  beau- 
Id   knit   his 
lied  to  pre- 
world  could 
use  him,  as 
nin  him  ten 
h  excited. 
'   daguerro- 
\v  my  sister 
n  her ;  hut 
;ompanying 

their  pres- 
ied    to    ex- 

I  lost  ])a- 
was    well 

tlolied    her. 

anie.  She 
home  with 
upbraided 

ked  to  me, 
well  as  to 
nted  to  be 

1,  when   1 

V  dare  you 


go  myself, 


and  tell  them,  who  you  are  ;  and  that  good  superior  will  tear  you 
limb  from  limb." 

Her  threat  so  frightened  me,  that  I  nearly  fell  from  my  seat.  All, 
that  1  had  suffered,  for  being  Maria  Monk's  daughter.  Hashed  through 
my  brain.     She  had  concjuered.     I  rose,  and  told  her,  that  1  would 


not  go. 


When  I  reached  Mrs.  Dwinelle's,  they  were  indignant,  when  I  told 
them,  that  1  would  not  go.  They  were  curious  to  know,  what  my 
sister  had  whispered  to  me,  that  had  made  me  change  so  suddenly. 
I  refused  to  give  them  any  explanation.  Mrs.  Dwindle  plainly 
showed  her  displeasure,  and  remarked,  that  she  felt,  that  she  had 
been  rash  in  introducing  me  to  her  friends,  williout  knowing  anything 
of  my  antecedents.  She  begged  me  to  be  frank  with  her,  and 
l)-omised  to  forgive  me,  i^o  matter  what  I  might  have  done.  But  my 
lips  wc?e  sealed.  Slie  re])roac]ied  me  for  my  want  of  confidence, 
and  accused  me  of  ingratitude. 

The  next  day  siie  got  me  a  situation  in  a  shop  in  the  Bowery. 

From  that  moment  I  began  to  sink.  My  spirit  was  crushed.  1 
had  no  heart  to  look  forward,  and  hope  for  a  better  lot.  In  one  day 
all  my  bright  visions  for  the  future  had  vanished,  and  all  my  friends 
too  had  vanished  with  them. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  I  was  discharged.  I  then  engaged  at  a 
ribbon  shop.  1  had  not  been  there  long,  when  two  of  Mrs.  Dwin- 
elle's gentlemen  acquaintances  called  on  me  there.  One  was  a 
handsome  young  man,  who  excited  for  me  the  envy  and  jealousy  of 
all  llie  girls  in  the  shop.  I'Yom  that  day  I  was  watched  with  an  evil 
eye  ,  and  they  were  not  long  in  entrap])ing  me.  One  day  I  wrote  a 
note  to  the  young  gentleman,  to  say,  that  I  should  be  pleased  to  have 
him  call  to  see  me  again.  But,  in  the  flowery  manner,  which  I 
thought  becoming  to  the  epistolary  style,  I  told  him  of  the  "pleasure 
which  ills  presence  afibrded  me."  I  imsspeh pesence,  and  wrote  it 
presents. 

As  I  finished  writing,  the  proprietor  sent  me,  on  some  pretext,  out 
of  the  shop,  in  great  haste. 

When  1  returned,  J  could  not  find  my  letter  j  and  all  in  the  shop 
declare. i,  that  they  had  not  seen  it. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  was  sent  for,  and,  in  the  presence  of 
several  of  the  elder  girls,  my  letter  was  read  aloud  to  me,  torn  in  two, 
and  thrown  at  me,  with  the  remark,  that  no  respectable  girl  would 


6o 


A  RETROSPECT. 


i 


!i       IS 


i 


accept  presents  from  men.  I  denied  having  ever  received  any  ;  at 
which  all  turned  on  me  like  furies,  and  asked  me  how  I  dared  to 
deny  it,  after  having  written  it  with  my  own  hand.  I  was  dismissed 
immediately. 

I  had  none  but  the  bitter  alternatives:  to  go  to  my  sister  for 
shelter,  or  to  sleep  in  the  street. 

When  I  called  on  my  sister,  I  had  to  confess  the  truth,  as  she 
knew  some  of  the  employees  in  the  ribbon  shop.  When  she  had 
heard  what  I  had  to  say,  she  broke  out  upon  me  in  an  avalanche  of 
abuse.  She  then  left  me,  and,  after  nearly  an  hour,  returned  to  tell 
me,  that  her  employer  had  given  me  permission  to  remain  for  the 
night. 

I  was  then  ushered  into  the  parlor,  where  the  lady  was  seated ; 
and  she  and  my  sister  took  turns  in  lecturing  me.  They  both  con- 
cluded, that  I  would  be  far  better  off  in  the  country. 

The  next  morning  1  left  the  house  with  a  fixed  determination  never 
to  put  my  foot  into  it  again.  The  word  country  had  frightened  me 
thoroughly.  Towards  evening  I  succeeded  in  engaging  m);self,  as  ai; 
apprentice  to  a  basket-maker.  At  the  end  of  a  month  the  establish- 
ment was  bankrupt,  and  I  was  once  more  alone  and  without  a  home. 
Every  piece  of  furniture  had  been  taken  out  of  the  house.  I  and  my 
trunk  alone  remained.  I  sat  on  the  trunk  and  fell  to  thinking.  1 
pissed  my  whole  life  in  review,  and  comparing  each  unhappy  oi 
painful  scene  with  the  present,  I  asked  myself  where  I  preferred  to  bej 
♦vhere  I  was  then,  or  where  1  had  been. 


CJiAPTFR  XIX. 

A  NEW  TURN  OF  THE  WHEl'.  CD  H 'RTUNt. — MY  MARRIAGE. 

I  REMEMBERED  an  old  wonvi',  who  b^d  once  been  good  to  me. 
I  went  to  her,  and  she  received  me  ki  idly  mto  her  humble  home.  I 
again  obtained  employment,  anil  'gasn  went  through  the  round  of 
bitterness,  humiliation,  and  disappointment. 

1  began  then  also  to  learn  more,  than  before,  of  the  darker  and 
more  revolting  side  of  the  tragedy  of  life ;  and  I  found,  alas !  how 


i 


I 


A   SUNBEAM. 


6i 


eived  any ;  at 
)w  I  dared  to 
was  dismissed 

my  sister  for 

truth,  as  she 
riien  she  had 

avalanche  of 
iirned  to  tell 
iniain  for  the 

was  seated  ; 
ley  both  con- 

ination  never 
rightened  me 
mjself,  as  ai, 
the  establish- 
liout  a  home. 
;.  I  and  my 
thinking.  1 
unhappy  oi 
:ferred  to  be  \ 


RRtAOE. 

ood  to  me. 
le  home.  I 
le  round  of 

darker  and 
,  alas  !  how 


what  is  vile,  and  selfish,  and  cruel,  and  devilish,  can  be  disguised  and 
excused  under  the  sacred  name  of  love,  and  friendship. 

It  could  do  no  good,  to  give  a  fuller  account  of  all,  that  happened 
to  me,  from  that  day  of  utter  heliilessness  and  misery,  when  I  sat  alone 
on  niy  trunk  in  the  basket-maker's  dismantled  shop,  until  I  was  intro- 
duced to  Judge .     The  judge  was  from  Dutchess  County,  and 

was  acquainted  with  my  relations.  He  as  good  as  adopted  me  ;  his 
wife  became  a  niother  to  me  ;  and  he  was  generally  recognized  as  my 
gi'.ardian. 

1  was  then  eighteen.  The  troubled  life,  which  I  had  led,  since 
my  father  died,  began  to  tell  on  my  constitution,  and  I  fell  ill. 

The  physician  projjosed,  that  my  guardian  should  send  me  away  to 
a  boarding-school  in  the  country.  'I'he  judge  agreed  to  the  jiroposal, 
and  on  the  fust  of  Ai)ril,  1856,  I  was  enrolled  a  scholar  at  Monson 
Academy.  Monson  is  a  small  village  in  Hamj)den  county,  Mass.  I 
was  received  most  cordially  by  Professor  Tuffs,  the  principal,  and  his 
wife.  They  introduced  me  to  the  leading  people  of  the  place,  and 
I  was  frecjuently  invited  to  their  entertainments  and  receptions. 

The  moment  I  arrived  at  Monson,  I  tried  to  become  oblivious  of 
tlie  past. 

I  studied  assiduously,  and  conformed  to  all  the  rules.  Every- 
body rhowed  me  confidence  and  esteem  ;  yet  my  soul  was  sick  ;  I 
was  pot  happy.  The  climate,  by  an  alternation  of  rain  and  fogs, 
seemed  to  be  in  sympathy  with  tlie  condition  of  my  spirit. 

One  afternoon  we  had  holiday.  Having  studied  hard  all  the 
morning,  I  began  to  think  what  f  should  do,  to  improve  it.  Sud- 
denly a  bright,  unwonted,  sunbeam  shed  its  rays  through  the  room. 

My  heart  lighted  up,  as  it  did  in  childhood  ;  and  I  sprang  towards 
the  beam,  to  embrace  it,  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  woods.  I  burst  out 
into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  silliness  of  my  action  ;  but,  in  an  instant, 
I  was  on  my  knees,  kissing  the  rays,  as  they  fell  ui)on  the  floor.  I 
got  up  and  drew  back  the  curtain,  as  far  as  I  could ;  then  threw  my- 
self ui)on  the  floor,  with  my  head  lying  in  the  sun  ;  and  as  its  rays 
l)layed  upon  my  cheek,  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  it  was  the  innocent 
kiss  of  other  days.  When  it  disappeared,  I  waited  for  its  return; 
and  each  time  it  seemed  to  bring  greater  peace  to  my  heart.  As  the 
sunbeam  slowly  i.rept  away,  I  gave  it  a  parting  kiss  on  the  window- 
pane  ;— and  then  I  raised  my  eyes  to  heaven,  and  said  :  **  At  last,  I 
have  had  one  happy  day." 


• 


i  , 


if 


1 1 


1    V 


i  I 


H 


62 


A  PRAYER   FOR  A   HUSBAND. 


From  that  hour  I  began  to  be  more  hke  myself.  I  became  cheer 
ful,  and  light-hearted  ;  and  looked  forward,  as  hopefully,  towards  a 
happy  future,  as  any  of  my  companions. 

At  the  close  of  the  term  I  returned  to  New  York  ;  and,  as  I  was 
sdll  anxious  to  pursue  my  studies,  the  judge's  wife  proposed,  that  I 
should  go  to  the  select  academy  of  Madame  Martinet,  in  West  Twen- 
ty-first street. 

Miss  Julia  Martinet,  from  the  moment  I  entered  the  school,  took 
more  pains  witli  me,  than  \\ith  the  other  scholars.  She  was  just  to 
all,  but  she  was  more  than  just  to  me.  She  used  to  take  me  alone 
to  the  parlor,  and  teach  me  tlie  proper  pronunciation  of  historical  and 
mythological  names  ;  for  I  i/iunounced  them,  as  I  had  taught  myself, 
when,  i  first  undertook  to  educate  myself  in  tiic  wild  woods. 

In  the  latter  i)art  of  January,  1857,  Madame  Martinet  gave  an  even- 
ing party  to  her  sfiiolars  ;  to  which  some  of  the  best  people  of  New 
York  were  invited.  Th.e  judge's  wife  t(;ok  upon  herself  the  arrange- 
m^  1'.  of  my  toilet.  She  dressed  me  most  becomingly  ;  and  on  my 
head  I  wore  a  wreath  of  exipiisite  natural  llowt.n.  As  I  merrily 
tripped  down  the  stairs,  I  said  half  aloud  :  "  Now,  Lord,  you  must 
get  me  a  husband  to-night ;  /x'  sure.,  that  you  do." 
•  When  I  entered  Madame  Martinet's  drawing-room,  I  noticed  a 
taH.liandsonie  gcii'cman,  about  thirty,  who  ma^ie  way  for  me  to  pass. 

My  friend  and  teacher  exclaimed  :  "  J  low  beaui'fu!  you  are  to-iiighi, 
Li/./.ie  !  You  look  as  lovely,  as  the  flovan-.  you  weai."  Then,  turning 
to  this  gentleman,  she  presented  me  tu  h\\\\,  .saying:  "This  is  my 
daughter  ;  I  am  very  fond  of  her  ;  and  vou  will  joon  acknowledge, 
tiiat  I  have  done  you  a  favor  by  introducing  yon."  She  Mien  addressed 
me,  and  said  :  "  This  is  Mr.  I'lckel,  of  Tennessei  ;  he  has  just  retuinod 
from  Chili ;  you  will  find  him  very  iiit<  -esting." 

Mr.  i''kel,  by  his  suavity  of  niaiiner,  and  the  sprightliness  of  his 
coTiversation,  was  a  good  type  of  tie  cultivated  southern  gentleman. 

1  was  at  once  dazzled  by  him.  He  had  a  vivid  imagination  ;  and 
his  poetic  fancies,  as  he  uttered  them,  so  bewildered  me,  that  once, 
when  he  paused  for  niy  reply,  and  looked  full  into  my  face,  instead 
of  answering  him,  I  returned  his  earnest  gaze.  Hut  our  glances  had 
different  meanings.  He  was  thinking  of  me,  and  was  trying  to  read 
into  the  I'.epths  c.'  .ny  soul  ;  while  I  was  thinking  of  myself,  and  was 
Badly  pondering  in  my  mind,  whetlier  I  would  ever  become  an  accom- 
plished lady,  that  I  might  dazzle  others,  as  he  did  me. 


ecame  cheer 
ly,  towards  a 

nd,  as  I  was 

[)osed,  that  I 

W'cst  Twcn- 

school,  took 
was  just  to 
vc  me  alone 
lislorical  and 
aught  niyself, 
ooda. 

trave  an  even- 
'.op]e  of  New 
f  tlie  arrange- 
;  and  on  my 
As  I  merrily 
rd,  you  must 

,  I  noticed  a 
jr  mc  to  pass, 
u  are  to-nigh i, 
Then,  turning 
"  This  is  mv 
acknowledge, 
hen  addressed 
:  just  retuinod 

itliness  of  his 
•n  gentleman. 
;ination  ;  and 
le,  that  once, 

face,  instead 
r  glances  had 
:rying  to  read 

self,  and  was 
ne  an  accoui- 


TIIE   PKAYEK    ANSWERED. 


63 


We  were  standing  by  a  vase  of  flowers.  While  admiring  them,  he 
paid  something  of  their  different  f;enera  and  species  ;  and  said,  that  he 
had  learned  to  know  and  lov(='  flowers  and  birds  in  South  America. 
He  pointed  to  a  flower,  and  asked  me  the  name  of  it,  which  he  had 
quite  forgotten,  as  this  flower  was  peculiar  to  the  North.  Said  I :  "I 
am  very  ignorant :  I  know  nothing  about  flowers  or  anything  else." 
Tic  laughed  and  said,  rather  timidly  :  "  Would  you  like  to  be  taught  ?  " 
"  i  long  for  nothing  else  :  "  I  replied,  "  I  diink  of  nothing  else.  I'ut 
nature  hers. '^  is  against  me;  for  whenever  I  study  steadily,  I  fall  ill, 
and  have  to  lay  aside  my  books ;  then  I  become  discouraged."  He 
told  nie  afterwards,  that  it  was  while  I  was  making  him  this  reply, 
tliat  the  thought  flashed  into  his  mind,  that  he  would  marry  me,  and 
become  my  teacher. 

A  few  days  after,  as  I  was  returning  from  school,  I  met  Mr.  Eckel. 
We  walked  until  dusk.  We  repeated  the  same  thing  for  several 
days ;  when  one  afternoon,  he  called  on  me,  and  asked  me  to  be  his 
vife. 

I  told  bin),  that  I  was  poor,  and  that  my  guardian  supported  me. 
"I  don't  care,"  he  re\)lied,  "if  you  do  not  own  the  hat  on  your 
head."  I  could  not  believe,  that  he  was  serious  ;  and  I  told  him 
so  ;  and  asked,  how  was  it  possible  that  he  should  offer  himself  to 
a  lady,  that  he  knew  nothing  about.  He  said,  it  was  sufticient, 
that  Miss  Martinet  had  introduced  me  to  him;  and  he  repeated  her 
Avords. 

He  said,  that  lie  had  the  greatest  conlidence  in  Miss  Martinet's 
judgment  ;  and  that  he  saw,  that  she  loved  me.  Then  I  began  to 
si)eak  in  the  most  disparaging  terms  of  myself.  But  he  soon  grew 
impatient,  and  his  hand  trembled,  as  he  took  mine,  and  said  to  me  : 
"  I  fear,  that  I  am  mistaken  in  you,  and  that  you  are  a  confirmed 
coquette,  instead  of  an  innocent,  artless  child." 

The  next  dviy  1  i)laced  my  hand  in  his  and  promised  to  be  his  wife. 
^Ve  appointed  the  20th  of  August  for  our  wedding  day  :  and  Mr. 
Eckel  left  fur  Washington. 

I  kept  my  engagement,  for  a  long  time,  a  secret.  I  first  told  the 
judge's  wife,  who  arranged  me  a  most  beautiful  trousseau.  A  few 
weeks  before  my  marriage,  I  disclosed  it  to  Miss  Martinet.  Siie  tried 
to  persuade  me  not  to  mafty  him  ;  as  she  was  sure  Mr.  Eckel  would 
make  me  miserable. 

On  the  appointed  day,  I  repaired  with  Mr.  Eckel  to  a  Mcthodis'. 


ViT 


64 


MISANTHROPY. 


parsonage,  and  was  married  by  the  Eev.  Dr.  Crawford,  in  the 
presence  of  the  judge's  family,  my  sister,  my  brother  in-law,  and  two 
lady  friends. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


I 


!  (  i 


MY    FIRST    LESSONS    IN    INFIDELITY. 

Months  had  passed  since  our  marriage  ;  and  my  husband  contin- 
ued to  shower  ujwn  me  those  delicate  attentions,  which  a  devoted 
heart  alone  kno  vs  how  to  bestow.  He  never  wearied  of  telling  me 
how  fondly  he  loved  me,  and  how  his  happiness  depended  on  nie 
alone.  He  would  press  my  head  c/  his  bosom,  and  search  in  my 
eyes  for  a  reply  ;  and  his  loving  heart  imagined,  that  mine  responded 
to  his  own.  But  an  early  life  of  misery  and  misfortune  had  left  its 
traces  in  my  heart,  and  had  rendered  it  callous  to  all  true  affection. 
Except  when  sickened  at  the  sight  of  penury  and  want,  it  seemed 
to  be  dead,  and  to  remain  icy  cold,  to  everytiiing  save  ambition.  I 
felt,  that  love  had  not  suiiled,  but  that  justice  had  frowned  upon  me, 
from  my  birth.  My  mother  had  ill-treated  me.  1  loved  my  father  ; 
but  God  had  taken  him  away.  After  his  death,  the  hands  that  had 
caressed  me,  were  the  first  to  strike  me  :  those  whom  I  had  trusted, 
had  deceived  me  ;  and  I  became  distrustfid  of  all  mankind,  and  had 
but  little  belief  in  sincerity  and  truth.  I  believed  that  everyliody 
else  was  hke  myself;  that  people  ow\y  appeal- cd  to  be,  what  they 
were  not.  I  had  but  one  thought,  one  desire  :  to  improve  my  mind, 
to  educate  myself.  Not  that  I  prized  knowledge  for  itself;  1  loved 
it,  as  a  vehicle  to  success,  nothing  more  ;  for  anything  else  would 
have  answered  me  just  as  well,  that  would  have  gratified  my  ambi 
tion. 

One  afternoon  my  husband  was  giving  me  a  S[)anish  lesson  ;  when 
suddenly  he  closed  the  book,  and  said  :  "  Wliat  happiness  it  is  to  call 
you  my  own  dear  wife  !  that  is  all  there  is  in  life  worth  living  for  :  to 
love  and  be  loved  ;  to  be  united  until  death."  "  And  after  death  ?" 
said  I.  He  i)aused,  commenced  to  spe;i1<,  but  hesitated,  as  though 
he  wished  me  to  urge  him  to  say,  what  was  already  ui)on  his  lips.  Hut 
I  wanted  him  to  go  on  with  the  S]>anish  Icbson,  and  tiicd  to  take  the 


AN   INFJDEL. 


<55 


book  from  him  ;  but  he  held  it  clinched,  as  he  looked  me  steadily  in 
the  eyes,  and  said  :     '*  Do  yoii  believe  in  Jesus  Christ  ?  " 

I  startled  at  the  way,  in  which  he  ])ronounced  that  name  ;  for  I  had 
always  heard  it  spoken  with  reverence.  It  was  a  name  1  had  ever 
feared,  and  had  never  loved  ;  but  a  chill  passed  through  me,  at  the  coid 
and  mocking  tone,  in  which  he  pronounced  it.  1  answered  him  ear- 
nestly :  "Of  course  I  believe  in  Him,"  He  shook  his  head,  and 
slowly,  and  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  as  though  afraid  of  wounding  me, 
he  gently  said  :   "  But  I  do  not." 

"  ]5ut,"  said  I,  "  I  have  read  the  Bible  ;  and  it  says,  that  only  tho.se, 
who  believe  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  can  be  saved." 
"  But,  my  dearest  wife,"  he  replied,  "  the  Bible  is  a  lie  from  beginning 
to  end.  Read  Clenesis  ;  and  any  geologist  will  tell  you,  that  the 
world  w.'.s  cn'i^od  thousands  anil  thousands  of  years  before  the  ejjoch 
given  there.  Just  look  at  the  first  chapter,  and  you  will  read  as 
pretty  a  fable,  as  was  ever  invented  ;  how  God  first  created  a  man, 
and  a  most  silly  woman,  who  was  deceived  by  that  lying  serpent. 
"  ]?ut,"  said  I,  "king  David,  who  wrote  such  beautiful  psalms,  must 
have  been  inspired  ;  when,  for  instanc  ?,  he  said  :  '  The  Lord  is  my 
shepherd!'"  "  lieautiful  poetry,"  said  he,  impatiently  interrui)ting 
me;  "but  the  truth  is,  that  when  David  was  young,  he  was  a  sort  of 
roving  troubadour ;  but  afterwards  he  became  nothing  more  or  less, 
than  an  old  filibuster." 

"  What  do  you  believe  ?  "  I  asked.  He  replied,  that  he  did  not 
believe  in  the  divinity  of  Christ,  in  the  individuality  of  a  devil,  or  the 
locality  of  a  hell.  "  You  only  tell  me,"  said  I,  "  what  you  don't 
believe  ;  but  tell  me  what  you  do  believed  The  question  seemed  to 
puzzle  him,  for  a  moment  ;  but  he  soon  recovered  himself,  and 
answered,  that  he  believed  in  an  Intelligence, — a  Cod,  if  I  [)referred 
the  word, — which  pervades  all  space,  all  matter;  and  the  sp-ark  of 
inttiiigence,  which  he  himself  possessed,  ])roceeded,  he  believed, 
from  Cod,  and  would  return  to  Him  again,  as  the  dew-drop  on  the 
mountain  returns  to  the  ocean. 

I  asked  him  what  he  called  his  sect.  "  We  are  infidels  ;  "  he  said  ; 
"  but  the  fashionable  term  is  Unitarian  Universalists.  I  am  an 
infidel."  I  shuddered  ;  for  I  had  read  a  storv,  called  "  The  lufidcrs 
Bride"  which  had  left  a  painful  impression  on  my  mind.  It  de- 
picted the  wife,  as  supremely  wretched,  just  because  her  husband  was 
an  infidel.     At  that  moment  Miss  Martinet's  words  Hashed  on  my 


¥. 


;l    'i- 


its 


66 


IMMORTALITY. 


jiiind  :  "  He  will  make  you  miserable."  Miss  Martinet  was  a  Catholic. 
Sho  probably  knew,  that  Mr.  Eckel  was  an  infidel  ;  and  the  thought 
came  to  mc,  thai  liiis  might  have  been  her  reason  «br  opposing  out 
marriage.  1  withdrew  a  lew  steps  from  him,  and  sat  down  upon  the 
lloor,  and  leaned  my  head  against  the  bed. 

I  felt  sad,  TlierL-  was  something  in  the  word  infidel,  that  I  did 
rot  like  ;  it  made  the  same  imjjression  on  me,  as  did  my  mother's 
name,  the  first  time  1  heard  it.  J  wished  my  husband  were  not  an 
intklcl,  without  fully  comprehending  what  an  infidel  was  ;  but  the 
word  seemed  to  forebode  me  evil. 

AVe  remained  for  a  few  moments  without  speaking.  I  broke  the 
silence  by  asking  him,  if  he  believed,  that  all  man's  personality,  and  all 
his  hojjes  of  eternal  bliss  and  a  glorious  immortality,  that  1  had  so  often 
heard  the  Methodists  spe"'-  of,  were  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  grave. 

"Nonsense;"  said  he,  "if  I  had  my  choice,  .1  should  choose 
oblivion.  The  sleep  of  a  thousand  years,  is  no  longer  than  that  of 
nn  hour.  Why  should  we  make  such  an  ado  about  nothing?" 
With  an  anxious  tone  I  asked  him,  did  lie  not  believe  in  a  future 
])unishment.  A  contemptuous  smile  passed  over  his  face,  as  he  re- 
plied :  "A  bugbear,  that  mankind  has  been  obliged  to  trump  up, 
from  the  beginning,  in  order  to  keep  thieves  and  liars  in  subjection. 
But,  beloved,  hoiv  frightened  you  look  !"  At  those  words,  he  knelt 
down  near  me,  and  said,  that  ;//_)'  future  punishment  should  be 
throughout  eternity,  to  be  adored  by  my  most  devoted  husband. 
"Then,"  said  I,  "you  rt'i?  believe  in  the  individuality  and  immortal- 
ity of  the  soul  ?  "  A  nervous  spasm  passed  over  his  face,  which  he 
tried  to  conceal.  But  1  quickly  said  to  him  :  "  It  is  now  your  turn 
to  be  frightened.  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale,  and  look  so  sad  ? " 
"Because,"  said  he,  "  my  whole  conviction  of  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  is  merely  based  on  a  simple  fact,  which  actually  occurred  to  me 
in  Chili ;  and  1  am  as  sure  of  its  reality,  as  I  am  of  my  own  exist- 
ence. But  it  recalls  one  of  the  saddest  hours  of  iny  life,  which  1  have 
been  trying  to  forget." 

He  opened  his  trunk,  and,  from  a  small  portfolio,  took  out  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  continued  :  "  When  I  was  in  Chili,  a  few 
months  after  my  wife  died,  I  took  my  child  to  Valparaiso,  and  left 
her  with  Mr.  Albert  Campbell's  family,  who  were  devoted  to  me,  and 
also  to  the  memory  of  my  wife.     I  then  returned  to  my  post. 

One  morning  my  wife  appeared  to  me.     I  cannot  tell,  if  I  was 


A    LIGHT   GOES   OUT. 


67 


•as  a  Catholic. 
1  the  thought 
opposing  out 
own  upon  the 

W,  that  I  did 
1  my  niotiicr's 
d  were  not  an 
was ;  but  the 

I  broke  the 
tnahty,  and  all 
1  had  so  often 
)  in  the  grave, 
hould   choose 

than  that  of 
It  nothing  ?  " 
"e  in  a  future 
fiice,  as  he  re- 
to  trump  up, 
in  subjection, 
ords,  he  knelt 
nt  should  be 
Dtcd  husband. 
\m\  immortal- 
face,  which  he 
now  your  turn 
3ok  so  sad  ?  " 
lortality  of  the 
ccurred  to  me 
my  own  exist- 
,  which  1  have 


),    took   out  a 

■'M. 

Chili,  a  few 

-^ 

raiso,  and  left 

'A 

ed  to  me,  and 

v| 

i  post. 

tell,  if  1  was 

asleep  or  awake  ;  but  I  saw  her  distinctly,  holding  ,"ie  child  in  her 
arms.  The  clock  struck  four.  1  arose,  and  rushed  towards  the  spot, 
where  she  appeared  ;  but  the  vision  had  lied,  and  1  burst  into  tears, 
and  nearly  fainted  ;  for  1  was  sure,  that  my  child  was  dead.  1  was 
as  heart-stricken  as  though  1  had  just  received  the  news.  1  dressed 
myself,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  beach.  I  cannot  tell  how  long 
I  had  been  there,  when  my  secretary  came  and  I  landed  me  r.  di:;- 
patch.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Campbell.  Here  it  is  ; "  and  le  handed 
it  to  me  to  read.  It  read  thus:  "Mr.  Eckel,  your  child  died  this 
morning  at  four  o'clock."  I  asked  him,  if  that  was  the  only  reason, 
that  he  had  for  believing,  that  the  soul  is  immortal.  "  I  am  sure,"  I 
added,  "that  the  liible  will  give  stronger  assurances,  than  that. 
But  why  have  you  not  told  me  all  this  before  ?  I  have  ever  been  living 
more  in  the  dread  of  Hell,  than  in  hope  of  Heaven  ;  for  I  have  al- 
ways heard  more  about  Hell  than  Heaven.  Ikit  I  am  not  sure,  that 
you  are  right  yet."  "  Read  «Cil)bon  and  Hume,"  he  replied,  "and 
you  will  soon  be  convinced,  that  the  Cin-istian  Religion  is  a  gigantic 
humbug."     Said  I  :  "  /  7ois/i  H  were  so.'' 

I  had  always  feared  the  name  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  through 
dread  of  the  punishment  due  to  iny  sins  ;  and,  when  I  said,  that  I 
wished  to  disbelieve  in  His  name,  I  spoke  it  from  my  heart,  and 
longed  to  be  convinced,  that  there  was  no  punishment  for  sins. 

In  an  instant  I  felt  a  light  go  out  of  me.  I  cannot  describe  it : 
it  was  one  of  those  supernatural  impressions,  impossible  for  any  one 
to  understand,  who  has  not  felt  them.  I  had  often  violated  the  laws 
of  Cod;  but  the  moment  I  dared  to  go  so  far  as  to  wish  to  disbe- 
lieve in  the  sacred  name  of  Jesus,  my  whole  being  became  enshroud- 
ed in  a  moral  darkness,  which  was  never  dispelled,  until  the  light  of 
Faith  once  more  gleamed  upon  my  soul. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "1  wish  I  could  know,  that  you  are  right :  I  should 
be  so  hajipy."  "  l>e  happy  then,"  said  he  ;  "for  I  will  soon  convince 
you.  If  I  have  never  told  you  these  truths  before,  it  is  because  I 
did  not  know,  how  much  your  mind  might  have  been  prejudiced. 
There  are  minds,  which  have  an  insane  reverence  for  the  name  of 
Jesus;  but  I  am  glad  to  see,  that  you  are  more  reasonable,  and  are 
willing  to  be  instructed." 

From  that  day  my  husband  took  every  pains  to  make  me,  what  he 
was  himself,  an  inlidel.  He  procured  me  Ciibbon,  Shelley,  Hume, 
and  other  writers  ;  whom  I  devoured  with  eager  attention. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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THE  RELIGION  OF  THE   BIBLE. 


These  impious  authors  soon  became  my  passion,  and  my  delight ; 
yet,  in  spite  of  all  their  subtle  reasoning,  a  feeble  ray  of  doubt  still 
lingered  in  my  mind ;  for,  amidst  such  moral  darkness,  even  doubt 
itself  becomes  a  ray  of  light. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

AN  infidel's  interpretation  of  scripture. 

When  alone,  I  passed  the  time  learning  foreign  languages ;  but, 
when  we  were  together,  we  would  read  and  converse  on  those  infidel 
writers.  Once  my  husband  said  to  me,  that  the  ignorance  of  the 
Christians  themselves  in  regard  to  their  doctrine  was  most  aston- 
ishing ;  that  a  Protestant,  to  him,  w^  the  most  unreasonable  of 
beings  ;  that  any  man  of  sense,  who  had  a  knowledge  of  sacred  or 
profane  history,  must  either  be  a  Roman  Catholic  or  an  infidel  ;  that 
there  was  no  compromise  between  the  two.  "  But,"  said  I,  "  I 
could  never  be  a  Roman  Catholic  !"  All  that  I  'uiew  about  them, 
was  what  I  had  read  and  heard  in  Amenia.  "  I  suppose,"  said  he, 
"you  judge  of  their  doctrine  from  what  you  see  of  the  Catholics 
themselves.  If  I  only  knew  their  religion  from  what  I  have  seen  of 
the  majority  of  professed  Catholics,  I  would  pronounce  the  greater 
part  of  tiiem  idiots,  and  the  lesser  part  knaves." 

"  If  I  believed  the  Bible,"  he  continued,  "  I  would  become  a  Ro- 
man Catholic  at  once;  for  were  the  Bible  true,  their  doctrine  would 
be  unanswerable.  I  have  studied  the  question  long  and  thoroughly, 
and  have  made  the  machinations  of  the  Roman  Church  itself  an  ob- 
ject of  special  research.  It  is  one  of  the  most  magnificent  structures 
of  human  policy,  that  were  ever  conceived  by  the  mind  of  man.  It 
is  after  you  have  examined  it  long,  and  analyzed  it  well,  in  all  its 
sinews,  its  fibres,  and  its  breathings,  that  you  become  amazed  at  the 
harmony  of  its  movements  ;  and  you  feel  as  though  you  stood  before 
some  monstrous  body  possessed  of  human  reason  and  suiK-rnatiu-al 
sense,  and  whose  magnitude  fills  the  globe,  on  which  it  stands. 
Always  movnig,  always  conquering,  even  when  it  appears  to  halt  and 
its  adversaries  pronounce  it  crushed  or  receding,  its  strength  never 
wanes  j  for,  in  proportion,  as  they  have  weakened  it  in  one  part,  they 


A   WONDROUS   MECHANISM. 


have  strengthened  it  in  another.  It  Ims,  ever  since  its  existence,  re- 
tained its  equilibrium,  like  the  universe  itself.  It  is  the  masterpiece 
of  human  wisdom  ;  and  the  Pope  is  the  pivot,  on  which  the  whole 
of  this  sublime  machinery  turns." 

"A  Roman  Catholic  has  to  believe,"  he  continued,  "that  the  Pope 
is  infallible  ;  or  he  might  as  well  throw  up  the  whole  game.  For  the 
Church  of  Rome  finds  just  as  much  reason  to  believe  in  that,  found- 
ed as  it  is  on  the  words  of  Christ  himself,  as  it  does  for  believing  in 
the  rest  of  the  juggleries  of  Christianity ;  and  they  cannot  be  called 
anything  else  ;  for  to  cheat  a  man  out  of  the  pleasures  of  this  life,  by 
a  mere  promise  of  eternal  happiness,  is  the  greatest  fraud  ever  invent- 
ed by  human  skill !  "  "  Where,"  said  I,  "  do  the  Catholics  find  in  the 
New  'I'estament,  that  Christ  said,  that  the  Pope  is  infailil'^e  ?  "  "  You 
will  find  it,"  said  he,  "  somewhere  in  Matthew  ;  where  Jesus  one  day 
was  questioning  Peter,  and  the  old  fisherman  raid  Him  a  compli- 
ment, which  pleased  Him  so  much,  that  He  promised  him,  that  He 
\vould  never  abandon  hin.  or  his  church,  and  that  Hell  itself  should 
never  prevail  against  either  of  them." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "you  believe  the  Pope,  cardinals,  bishops,  and 
priests,  to  be  knaves,  and  their  adherents  so  many  dupes?"  "By 
no  means,"  he  answered  :  "  I  am  convinced,  that  they  are  sin- 
cere ;  and  that  is  the  most  marvellous  part  of  the  whole  business : 
that  they  actually  do  believe  themselves  in  the  divinity  of  the  whole 
edifice.  Therein  lies  the  enigma,  which  eighteen  centuries  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  solve,  and  which  alone  is  suflicient  to  excite  one's 
admiration  for  tliis  great  contrivance  ;  whose  workings,  and  whose  re- 
sults soar  above  reason  itself.  In  the  face  of  the  Church  of  Rome, 
Reason  itself  lies  dethroned." 

I  could  not  see,  I  said,  how  he  could  say,  that  this  great  piece 
of  machinery  had  always  held  together  ;  for  it  seemed  to  me,  that 
Luther  and  Henry  VIII.  had  carried  otif  two  of  its  big  wheels. 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  he  :  "  they  were  only  the  offal,  which  the 
wheels  threw  off;  but  they  were  not  a  part  of  the  machinery  itself; 
for  it  became  much  cleaner  and  brighter  and  ran  on  much  smoother 
without  them.  It  was  such  Catholics,  as  Luther  and  Henry  the 
Eighth,  that  impeded  rather,  than  impelled  the  course  of  this  mighty 
work ;  for  the  Church  has  always  tried  to  grind  down  pride  and 
licentiousness,  and  your  Luther  and  your  Henry  the  Eighth  were  a 
fair  mixture  of  both." 


14 


fp>  PIETY   AND    COCKFIGHTTNG. 

I  then  recollected  how  my  uncle  Horace  used  to  abuse  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  I  asked  my  husband,  how  he  could  be  in  earnest  in  his  ad- 
miration of  a  church,  which  worshipped  the  Virgin  Mary  as  equal  to 
-God.  "That  is  a  lie;"  said  he;  "for  they  do  no  such  thing.  I 
know  the  Catholic  catecliism  by  heart,  and  it  only  teaches  to  honor 
the  Virgin,  as  being  the  mother  of  the  Messiah  ;  and  why  should  it 
not  ?  How  can  a  man  worshij)  Jesus  Christ,  as  a  CJod,  and  then  ;y- 
pudiate  His  icJwle  family  ?     It  is  simply  ridiculous." 

Said  I  :  "  I  have  lived  among  the  Methodists,  and  I  know  they 
are  good  people."  "  Good  !  "  repeated  he  ;  "  but  what  do  they 
amount  to  ?  I  never  bother  my  head  about  these  different  sects. 
You  never  know  where  they  begin,  or  where  they  are  going  to  end  ; 
but  the  Catholics  have  something  tangible.  Take  a  devout,  earnest, 
good  Catholic,  Irish  servant  girl :  she  will  have  more  good,  common, 
practical  sense,  than  all  these  ranting  sectarian  preachers  put  to- 
gether. I  have  often  attended  the  Catholic  service  in  South  America ; 
and  I  have  seen  more  real  devotion  in  one  Catholic  church,  than  I 
have  in  all  the  Protestant  churches  I  have  ever  entered.  Your  Pro- 
testant women  have  not  serious  religions  convictions.  They  go  to 
church,  when  they  are  young,  to  catch  beaux  ;  and,  after  they  are 
married,  they  go  to  show  oft"  tlieir  fine  clothes,  and  to  make  the  other 
women  jealous ;  and,  when  they  get  old,  they  go  to  set  a  good  ex- 
ample for  their  children.  There  is  less  dissimulation  among  the 
Catholics  :  in  Catholic  countries  they  attend  to  their  sacred  duties  in 
the  morning,  and  divert  themselves  th.  rest  of  the  day.  I  was  inti- 
mate with  a  priest  there,  whom  I  know  to  be  an  honest  man,  and  what 
the  Christians  would  call  a  pious  man  :  I  loved  him  for  his  upright- 
ness and  integrity ;  yet  I  have  heard  him  celebrate  mass  on  Sunday 
morning,  and  have  met  him  going  to  the  cockfights  in  the  afternoon, 
with  two  big-feathered  fight'^rs,  one  under  each  arm  ;  and  I  would 
trust  that  man  farther,  than  any  man  I  ever  knew."  "  What ! "  I 
exclaimed,  "break  the  Sabbath  in  that  way  !  "  "  It  is  easy  enough," 
jaid  he,  "to  see,  that  you  have  been  bred  among  a  set  of  Puri- 
tans." . 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  never  edified  them  with  my  piety.  But  I 
never  met  so  big  a  sinner  yet,  as  would  not  have  said,  that  a  priest, 
who  went  to  a  cockfight  on  Sunday,  did  wrong."  "  Well,"  said  he, 
*'  I  don't  mean  to  say,  that  it  was  the  best  thing  he  ever  did  in  his 
life  ;  but  I  do  not  see,  where  the  harm  lies.     Tiiey  say,  that  if  a  man 


MISERIES    OF   UNBELIEF. 


71 


the  Blessed 
lest  in  his  ad- 
y  as  equal  to 
t;h  tiling.  I 
hes  to  honor 
vhy  should  it 
and  then  re- 

I   know  they 

hat  do  they 

fterent  sects. 

Ding  to  end ; 

'out,  earnest, 

0(1,  common, 

:hers  put  to- 

ith  America ; 

lurch,  than  I 

Your  Pro- 

They  go  to 

ter  they  are 

xke  the  other 

et  a  good  ex- 


labors  the  whole  week,  they  do  not  believe,  that  the  Lord  will  grudge 
him  a  little  innocent  diversion  on  Sunday." 

"  It  is  by  drawing  the  reins  too  tightly  on  us  poor  mortals,"  he 
continued,  "that  we  are  set  a  thinking.  If  we  have  time  to  examine 
the  matter,  we  protest ;  and,  as  we  become  enlightened,  we  keep  on 
•'j)rotesting,  until  we  protest  against  Protestantism  itself,  and  then  we 
become  Infidels,  Freethinkers,  such  as  I  am.  But  we  have  to  go 
through  a  galling  process,  before  we  reach  the  pinnacle,  on  which 
we  stand,  and  whence  finally  we  can  take  a  good  survey  of  all,  that 
lies  beneath  us.  We  have  to  traverse  Protestantism,  because  Pro- 
testantism is  the  first  step  towards  Infidelity. 

"You  never  hear  of  Catholics  falling  suddenly  into  Infidelity,  and 
you  never  heard  of^a  sincere,  enlightened  Catholic  turning  at  all. 
There  is  no  need  for  them  to  change  ;  as  the  church  admirably  adapts 
itself  to  all  natures  and  all  climates,  without  changing  an  iota  of  its 
fundamental  principles,  which,  they  believe,  have  been  handed  doAvn 
to  them  diiectly  from  Christ  himself.  After  they  have  inculcated, 
and  tried  to  ma  .e  practical,  the  three  great  theological  virtues, 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity, — they  let  a  man  alone  to  exercise  his  own 
free  will,  and  save  himself  by  the  help  of  God  ;  but  they  don't  take 
upon  themselves  the  care  of  their  neighbor's  salvation,  by  meddling 
with  his  affairs,  and  neglecting  their  own  souls,  as  the  Protestants  do. 
Tliese  will  put  a  strait-jacket  on  you,  that  will  chafe  a  man  so,  that, 
unless  he  is  a  lunatic,  he  will  not  stand  it  long.  So  we  throw  ofl"  the 
whole  yoke,  and  become  freemen."  "  And  then,"  said  I,  "  you  are 
haj^py  ?  "  He  replied  :  "  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that ;  for  I  believe, 
and  my  experience  has  proved  it  to  me,  that  the  happiest  men  here 
below  are  those,  who  have  lived  and  died  in  the  illusion  of  Christi- 
anity, when  they  have  had  the  courage  to  live  up  to  it." 

He  became  thoughtful,  and  after  having  jjaced  the  room  several 
moments  in  a  hurried,  anxious  way,  he  continued  :  "There  have  been 
moments  in  my  life,  when  misfortunes  have  borne  heavily  upon  me, 
in  which  I  liave  tried  to  drown  desj)air  in  pleasure  ;  but  pleasure 
itself,  the  gay  deceiver,  like  the  apples  of  Sodom,  would  tm-n  to 
ashes  in  my  mouth.  In  such  moments,  dearest  one,  I  have  wished, 
that  I  had  never  doubted." 

He  paused  for  a  few  moments;  and  then  commenced  to  speak  jo- 
cosely, as  though  he  would  drive  away  all  serious  thought.  "  I  do 
wish,"  said  he,  "  that  those  Puritan  Yankees,  while  they  were  teaching 


72 


VENUS   VERSUS   MINERVA. 


you  their  catechism,  had  taught  you  a  Httle  order ;  for  it  would  have 
been  of  more  use  to  you."  "  Let  us  be  just,"  said  I,  "  and  not  reproach 
them  for  that.  It  was  the  least  of  their  faults.  Aunt  Mercy"  .... 
"  Aunt  who  ? "  said  he,  interruuting  me.  I  repeated  the  name. 
"  Caramba  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  a  name  for  a  woman  !  "  "  Ah  ! " 
said  I,  "  you  should  have  lived  with  her  once,  and  have  been  treated 
by  her  /i/ce  one  of  the  family,  and  then  you  would  have  agreed  that 
her  name  was  most  appropriate.  Well,  this  old  lady  was  nearly  six 
years  trying  to  teach  me  to  hang  up  my  sun-bonnet,  and  to  put  things 
back,  where  I  found  them.  The  truth  is,  1  heard  such  a  noise  about 
order  in  those  days,  that  I  took  a  dislike  to  it,  and  we  have  been  bit- 
ter enemies  ever  since." 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  said  he,  "  to  try  to  pass  over  so  serious  a  defect 
in  that  way ;  for,  if  you  have  fallen  oi:t,  it  is  time  you  were  recon- 
ciled." "  It  is  enough,"  I  replied,  "  for  me  to  lind  my  things  ;  I  never 
think  about  the  rest.  But  I  know  people,  who  devote  more  time  to 
putting  their  things  straight,  folding  them,  and  arranging  them,  than  it 
would  take  me  to  learn  all  the  natural  sciences."  "And  they  would 
be  far  better  employed,"  he  remarked,  "  doing  those  very  things  you 
so  much  despise.  I  find  only  one  defect  in  you,  dearest,  and  that  is, 
you  are  too  ambitious.  I  wish  you  would  take  life  more  calmly  :  you 
are  too  restless,  too  eager  to  learn ;  you  place  too  high  a  value  on 
mental  acquirements.  I  love  you  as  you  are  ;  and  where  is  the  man, 
who  does  not  prefer  Venus  to  Minerva?  Give  me  a  woman,  that 
can  neither  read  nor  write,  and  I  would  prefer  her  infinitely  to  a 
blue-stocking.  Let  us  enjoy  life  while  we  may, — *  dum  vivimiis,  viva- 
viHS,' — and  say,  with  Horace  :  *  Let  kingdoms  and  empires  pass 
away  ;  but  give  me  the  moment  as  it  passes  by.'  You  told  me,  the 
other  day,  that  you  were  seeking  for  happiness.  You  don't  know 
how  you  wounded  me ;  for  where  can  happiness  be  found,  but  in 
our  mutual  devotion  ?  Happiness  consists  in  small  things  ;  in  the 
picking  up  of  a  pin,  or  the  turning  over  of  a  leaf.  Carpe  diem  : 
Let  us  seize  the  present,  and  not  sacrifice  to  the  future,  who  is  ac 
ungrateful  dame,  and  would  be  sure  to  clieat  us." 


THE  STUDY  OF  MEN. 


73 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


WASHINGTON. — MY   HUSBAND   AND    I    CHANGE   PLACES. 


In  January,  1858,  I  accomi)anied  my  husband  to  Washington,  and 
entered  into  its  intrigues  and  frivolities  with  a  zest  and  earnestness, 
of  which  only  a  giddy  mind,  filled  with  vanity  and  self-love,  is  capa- 
ble. To  be  thrown  among  prominent  men  and  to  receive  their  adu- 
lation, was  what  my  heart  had  craved  ;  and  now  it  had  obtained  its 
desire ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  my  ambition  was  gratified. 
It  was  in  Washington  society,  tliat  I  first  learned  the  magical  power 
of  woman  over  man,  and  even  over  the  destinies  of  a  state. 

For  a  while  I  threw  aside  my  books,  to  study  men.  I  sought  to 
know  their  weaknesses  and  foibles,  and  then  set  out  to  educate  my- 
self in  the  arts  and  wiles,  by  which  poor  human  nature  could  be  most 
easily  controlled.  Our  apartments  soon  became  a  resort  for  many 
of  the  distinguished  men  of  the  capital.  They  would  pass  the  even- 
ings, discussing  poHtics,  playing  cards,  or  trying  to  form  new  political 
combinations. 

We  remained  in  Washington  about  eight  months.  When  we  re- 
turned to  New  York,  we  stayed  at  the  St.  Denis  Hotel ;  where  I  re- 
sumed my  studies. 

A  few  weeks  after  our  return,  my  husband  was  ill  and  I  was  seated 
at  his  bedside.  He  then  gave  me,  for  the  first  time,  some  account  of 
the  state  of  his  affairs  ;  from  which  I  found,  that  he  had  been  living, 
since  our  marriage,  on  the  generosity  of  his  family,  who  now  refused 
to  give  him  farther  assistance ;  and  that,  just  before  our  marriage,  he 
had  lost  all  he  was  worth,  by  the  total  loss  of  the  ship  "  Obed 
Mitchell:' 

"  There  is  nothing,"  said  I,  "I  so  much  dread  as  poverty  !  "  "The 
grim  spectre,"  he  replied,  "has  been  chasing  me  for  a  long  while; 
and  the  thought,  that  you  would  sooner  or  later  discover  it,  has  tor- 
tuied  mc  to  distraction." 

"Misfortune,  dearest,"  said  I,  "shall  never  separate  us :  it  will 
only  draw  me  to  you.     I  have  suff'ered,  and  I  know  how  to  pity 


you. 


'<>t- 


It  surprised  him  .0  hear  me  speak  so  :  for  I  had  never  revealed  to 
4 


74 


THE  IVY  AND  THE  OAK. 


him  my  past  history.  "  I  have  often  pondered,"  he  said,  "as  to  what 
would  become  of  you,  if  you  had  no  one  to  take  care  of  you  ; "  and 
he  dwelt  on  my  peculiar  childlike  helplessness.  I  reminded  him,  that 
in  acting  hitherto  such  a  part,  I  had  been  but  fulfilling  a  promise, 
which  he  had  exacted  of  me  on  our  wedding-tour.  I  reminded  him, 
how  he  had  said,  that  it  is  the  duty  of  a  husband  to  take  care  of  his 
wife ;  and  of  a  wife  to  lean  upon,  and  cling  to  her  husband,  as  the 
ivy  does  to  the  oak ;  and  that  he  had  made  me  solemnly  promise, 
that  thenceforth  I  would  let  my  husband  stand  between  the  world 
and  me.  "But  now,"  I  said,  "I  am  tired  of  being  a  puppet.  I  be- 
lieve, that  it  is  as  much  the  duty  of  a  woman  to  assist  her  husband, 
as  it  is  the  duty  of  the  husband  to  take  care  of  his  wife.  It  is  now 
your  turn,"  I  continued,  "to  promise,  that  you  will  henceforth  let  me 
stand  between  you  and  the  world." 

He  clasped  me  to  his  bosom,  and  said  :  "  You  are  so  good !  I  only 
wish  you  were  as  affectionate,  as  you  are  noble  and  generous.  Do 
anything,  anything  you  choose  :  1  can  see  no  hope  ;  I  am  so  discour- 
aged, that,  were  it  not  for  you,  I  would  light  a  handful  of  charcoal, 
and  all  would  soon  be  over." 

The  next  morning,  I  went  to  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel,  to  see  Col. 
Bilbo  of  Tennessee,  one  of  my  husband's  most  devoted  friends.  I 
told  him  how  we  were  situated,  and  succeeded  in  enlisting  his  sympathy. 

He  named  over  several  fhings  ;  but  quickly  decided,  that  it  would 
be  of  no  use  to  offer  any  of  them  to  my  husband,  as  he  was  too  indo- 
lent for  one,  too  proud  for  another,  or  not  qualified  for  a  third.  He 
continued:  "It  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world,  to  set  men 
up,  who  have  dabbled  in  politics.  They  become  like  gamblers,  who 
refuse  to  work,  and  spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  taking  their  chances." 
Finally  he  said:  "  1  will  take  you  to  Fernando  Wood's  office,  and 
introduce  you  to  him.  He  is  the  only  man,  that  can  do  anything  for 
your  husband  ;  for  he  must  have  a  situation  under  the  government ; 
where  there  is  a  good  salary  and  nothing  to  do." 

After  receiving  his  friend  in  the  most  cordial  manner,  Mr.  Wood 
turned  to  me,  and  asked  the  Colonel,  if  I  was  his  daughter.  "  Yes," 
said  the  Colonel,  "for  I  have  just  adopted  her.  She  is  the  wife  of  a 
Tennesseean  ;  and  you  know,  that  we  are  still  one  family  in  the  dear 
old  State.  Promise  me,"  continued  he,  "  that  you  will  be  a  friend 
and  a  father  to  this  lady."  Mr.  Wood  gave  me  his  hand,  and  told 
me,  that  I  had  only  to  make  my  demands. 


THE  BLACKGUARD  VOTE. 


75 


When  he  learned,  that  my  husband  had  been  consul  :  "  Please  give 
me  his  name,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  get  him  a  situation  in  the  Custom 
House." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  I  asked  wonderingly.  "Certainly, 
madam,"  he  replied ;  "  did  you  not  hear  me  promise  the  Colonel  ?  " 
"  Why  then,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  good  man  !  I  thought  you  were  the 
worst  man,  that  ever  lived."  "  I  suppose  you  read  the  newsyapert, ' 
said  he.  "Yes,"  I  replied  ;  "and  if  you  are  innocent,  why  do  you 
not  contradict,  what  they  say  ?  "  "  Why,"  said  he  laughing,  "  the 
best  service,  they  can  render  a  man  in  this  city,  is  to  abuse  him  :  it 
will  secure  me  the  whole  blackguard  vote  in  the  next  election,  with- 
out costing  me  a  cent.  They  Lave  said  so  much  against  me,  that  I 
am  now  sure  to  win."  I  left,  assuring  Mr.  Wood,  that  I  would  try 
to  induce  every  man,  I  knew,  to  vote  for  him. 

In  less  than  a  week,  my  husband  received  an  appointment  in  the 
Custom  House.  It  was  at  one  of  the  abstract  desks,  and  just  such  a 
place  as  the  Colonel  had  proposed ;  where  there  was  a  salary,  and 
but  littlt  work.  From  that  moment  my  husband  began  to  look  up 
to  me  as  a  marvel,  and  a  genius ;  and  would  depend  upon  me  for 
everything.  We  took  more  spacious  rooms  in  the  hotel ;  and  our 
evening  receptions  became  almost  a  repetition  of  what  they  had  been 
in  Washington  ;  with  the  exception,  that  I  now  took  every  advantage 
of  using  those,  who  visited  me,  for  my  own  profit.  I  was  always  in- 
triguing, to  obtain  an  appointment  for  some  one,  whom  I  would  make 
remit  me  a  quarter  of  his  salary,  if  I  succeeded.  Not  content  with 
that,  I  would  use  my  influence  in  obtaining  contracts  for  my  friends ; 
upon  which  I  received  a  percentage.  In  ;.  short  time  my  income 
far  exceeded  my  husband's  salary. 


,  CHAPTER  XXIir. 

I   REVISIT   MY  AUNT. — SHE    DOES    "HER   CHRISTIAN    DUTY"    BY   MAK- 
ING   MY  -HUSBAND    JEALOUS. 

The  unusual  tension  of  nerves,  required  for  my  new  part  of  in- 
triguer and  lobbyist,  soon  caused  a  reaction,  which  made  me  wi.sh 
myself  again  in   the  woodlands  of  Dutchess.    My  health  began 


i  i  I 


tb    i 

i '          ; 

1'    * 

■ '  i 

i 

^-, 

ii  i 

76 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  NATURE. 


to  fail ;  and,  with  the  consent  of  my  husband,  I  revisited  the  scenei 
of  my  childhood's  joys  and  miseries,  in  the  summer  of  1859.  My 
uncle  and  aunt  received  me,  as  if  I  were  their  long-lost  child. 

I  passed  several  days  rambling  alone  in  the  woods ;  and  sought 
out  the  spots,  which  were  dear  to  me,  when  a  child.  All  things  were 
unchanged  in  their  exterioPaspect ;  but  they  spoke  to  me  a  new 
language,  which  my  guilty  conscience  could  not  but  understand.  I 
found  remorse,  where /er  I  turned.  The  woods  seemed  to  frown 
upon  me,  and  to  whisper  to  me  to  begone ;  and,  one  evening, 
beneath  a  glowing  sunset,  I  gave  them  a  long  parting  look,  and  sadly 
went  away.     I  have  never  since  returned. 

From  that  time  I  was  constantly  drawn  to  the  jiond,  whose  waves 
had  once  made  me  weep.  One  day,  I  sat  near  by  upon  a  little 
mound,  which  gave  a  fine  view  of  the  surrounding  scene.  The  sun 
was  setting,  hidden  by  a  cloud.  I  had  not  been  there  long,  before  I 
felt  the  jieace  of  other  days  come  back  again,  which  I  had  vainly 
sought  amidst  my  old  favorite  haunts.  Almost  unconscious  of  what 
I  did,  I  raised  my  eyes  to  heaven,  and  repeated  a  little  prayer,  that 
I  had  composed,  when  a  child.  I  had  hardly  finished  it,  when  the 
sun  escaped  from  behind  the  cloud,  and  shone  forth  with  dazzling 
splendor,  and  its  peerless  brightness  illumined  the  whole  landscape. 
In  the  same  instant,  I  heard  the  mellow  tones  of  an  organ,  which  pro- 
ceeded from  the  neighboring  cottage.  It  was  soon  accompanied 
by  a  child's  voice  warbling  a  little  hymn.  The  whole  scene  seemed 
to  vibrate  upon  my  soul,  and  filled  it  with  an  unknown  and  ineffable 
sweetness.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  nmsic ;  but  it  recommenced, 
and  repeated  the  same  melody.  After  the  hymn  was  ended,  I  longed 
for  the  spell  to  last ;  and  the  hymn  was  commenced  again.  I  listened, 
like  one  entranced ;  and,  when  the  music  had  entirely  ceased,  I 
thought,  and  exclaimed  aloud  :  "  Oh !  that  I  could  build  here  a 
church  ;  that  these  hills  might  ever  resound  with  sacred  music  !  It  is 
just  the  spot,  in  which  to  worship  God!" 

I  arose  to  go,  and,  as  I  turned,  the  sun  sank  behind  the  moun- 
tain. And  I  too  sank  again  into  the  foul  depths  of  infidelity ;  and 
peace  left  my  heart. 

One  day  the  little  girl,  who  filled  my  former  position  in  Aunt 
Mercy's  house,  expressed  to  me  a  desire  to  go  to  New  York,  and 
return  a  lady,  as  I  had  done.  I  was  stung  with  remorse,  and  felt 
my  apparent  success  a  shame — a  decoy  to  invite  others  to  ruin. 


A  husband's  honor. 


m 


d,  whose  waves 
upon  a  little 

ene.  The  sun 
i  long,  before  I 
ich  I  had  vainlv 
iscious  of  what 
tie  prayer,  that 
ed  it,  when  the 
I  with  dazzling 
hole  landscape, 
gan,  which  pro- 
n  accompanied 

scene  seemed 
^n  and  ineffable 
recommenced, 
2nded,  I  longed 
in.  I  listened, 
irely  ceased,  I 
I  build  here  a 
:d  music  !  It  is 

ind  the  nioun- 
infidelity ;  and 

sition  in  Aunt 
^ew  York,  and 
morse,  and  felt 
s  to  ruin. 


I  had  the  appearance  of  having  all  that  I  could  desire ;  yet  He, 
who  reads  hearts,  knew,  that  I  was  wretched,  and  rarely  saw  a  happy 
hour.  I  had  formerly  studied,  believing,  that  knowledge  would 
bring  happiness  ;  but  now  study  became  a  resource  to  enable  me 
to  forget.  Still  I  clung  to  the  pleasing  delusion,  that  more  knowl- 
edge might  bring  hap|)iness  ;  and  I  resisted  the  arguments  of  my 
husband  to  induce  me  to  give  up  the  pursuit.  I  would  not  permit 
him  to  point  out  to  me  the  road  to  happiness,  as  he  had  not  found 
it  himself. 

My  aunt  was  annoyed,  that  my  husband  should  be  so  blindly 
attached  to  me,  as  not  to  see  my  faults  ;  and  she  sought  to  open  his 
eyes  to  my  defects  of  character.  I  rather  encouraged  her  in  this, 
believing  her  to  be  a  woman  of  sense,  who  would  do  me  no  real 
harm.  Besides,  I  had  so  great  reliance  upon  my  husband's  sense  of 
honor  (to  which  he  seemed  to  cling,  more  than  to  life),  that  I  was 
confident,  that  her  attempts  would  redound  to  her  humiliation. 
Alas  !  for  me  fatal  mistake  ! 

Just  before  setting  out  for  Amenia,  I  had  almost  decided  not  to 
go.  A  dread  foreboding  had  taken  possession  of  me,  that  some  evil 
would  befall  me  there.  I  could  not  shake  it  off,  till  one  day  amidst 
an  outburst  of  tenderness  on  my  husband's  part,  I  had  said  to  him : 
"  Is  your  love  so  strong,  that  you  are  incapable  of  believing  evil  of 
me?  I  have  enemies  in  the  country;  would  you  believe  their 
slanderous  tongues?  I  admit,"  I  added  laughingly,  "that  I  have 
ever  done  but  little  to  conciliate  their  good  will  or  their  good 
opinion." 

He  had  takeir  it  very  seriously,  and  had  said :  "  I  am  a  man  of 
honor  and  self-respect.  Do  you  think  me  capable  of  permitting 
any  one  to  speak  disparagingly  to  me  of  my  wife  ?  Has  a  man  any- 
thing more  sacred?  "I  would  consider,  that  he  offered  me  a 
personal  insult,  who  would  even  refer  to  my  wife's  faults  in 
my  presence;  and  so  would  any  gentleman."  I  was  delighted 
with  his  reply ;  and  had  decided  to  go ;  sure,  that  I  had  nothing  to 
fear. 

But  the  breath  of  .slander  is  so  insidious,  that  it  steals  upon  us 
unawares ;  and  never  is  this  poison  infused  into  our  minds  more 
subtly,  than  when  we  receive  it  from  the  lips  of  those,  whom  we  be- 
lieve to  be  our  friends,  and  the  friends  of  those,  whom  we  hold  most 
dear.    And  even  while  they  aie  undermining  them  in  our  affection, 


78 


VIRTUOUS   ASSASSINS. 


the  worst  of  all  is,  that  we  cannot  hold  these  murderers  of  our 
peace  guilty  of  an  intent  to  kill  our  happiness ;  for  these  virtuous 
assassins  are  often  so  deluded  in  regard  to  their  own  sanctity,  that 
they  really  imagine,  that  their  advice  is  prompted  by  a  sentiment 
of  charity,  when  it  is  nothing  but  jealousy  and  hate. 

I  had  been  in  Amenia  but  a  few  weeks,  when  several  of  my  cou- 
sins came  on  a  visit.  One  of  them  was  a  gentleman  from  the  South.  He 
was  about  my  own  age,  tall,  handsome,  and  accomplished.  Among 
these  cousins  were  also  two  young  ladies.  The  gentleman  showed 
me  a  marked  preference  by  inviting  me  to  drive,  to  ride,  to  shoot, 
and  to  fish.  He  liked  me  better,  than  the  others,  because  I  had 
seen  more  of  the  world.  I  preferred  him  not  only  because  of  his  ex- 
cellent qualities,  but  also  because  it  provoked  the  envy  of  the  rest. 

My  husband  came  frequently ;  and  my  aunt  took  it  upon  herself 
to  render  him  an  accurate  account,  how  I  passed  the  time  in  his  ab- 
sence. I  had  told  him  all  myself ;  but  hers  was,  of  course,  a  differ- 
ent version.  He  became  furiously  jealous,  and  requested  my  imme- 
diate return  to  New  York. 

I  was  quietly  packing  up,  but  in  no  hun)or  to  hear  a  sennon,  when 
my  aunt  came,  and  told  me  how  much  she  regretted  to  see  me  so  in- 
different to  so  devoted  a  husband,  and  that  she  hoped  I  would  reform. 
I  knew,  that  she  was  the  cause  of  my  being  obliged  to  leave  ;  and 
she  had  hardly  pronounced  the  word  reform,  when  1  retorted  upon  her 
with  a  volley  of  words,  such  as  only  an  enraged  woman  can  command. 

She  flew  to  my  husband  ;  and  they  remained  together  for  an  hour. 
When  he  spoke  .;o  me  again,  he  was  a  changed  man.  I  knew,  that 
it  was  useless  to  question  him  ;  for  his  pride  would*never  permit  him 
to  acknowledge,  that  he  had  allowed  any  one  to  speak  to  him  against 
me.  He  spoke  to  me  in  a  tone,  and  with  a  manner  and  a  look,  such 
as  he  had  never  used  before ;  and  sullenly  resisted  all  my  efforts  to 
soothe  him.  I  soon  lost  all  control  ovc.  myself,  and  ran  to  my 
aunt ;  \vho  was  looking  perfectly  composed  and  happy.  I  reproach- 
ed her  sharply  with  having  tried  to  influence  my  husband  against  me, 
remarking,  that  she  had  succeeded,  but  too  well,  in  her  efforts.  She 
admitted,  that  she  had  done,  what  she  considered  to  be  her  Christian 
duty,  by  letting  him  know  my  true  character. 

"  Yes,"  I  retorted,  "  and  it  is  out  of  love  for  me,  that  you  have 
done  it."  And  I  prayed,  with  unutterable  bitterness  of  hearf,  that 
such  love  should  have  its  fitting  reward. 


A  REVIEW  AND  A   MORAL. 


99 


eral  of  my  con- 

1  the  South.  He 

hed.      Am  011'' 

tleman   showed 

ride,  to  shoot, 

because  I  had 

cause  of  his  ex- 

vy  of  the  rest. 

it  upon  herself 

'  time  in  his  ab- 

:ourse,  a  differ- 

ested  my  imme- 

a  sennon,  when 
to  see  me  so  in- 
I  would  reform. 

I  to  leave  ;  and 
torted  upon  her 
can  command. 

ler  for  an  hour. 
I  knew,  that 
'ver  permit  him 
:  to  him  against 
nd  a  look,  such 

II  my  efforts  to 
and  ran  to  my 
/.  I  reproach- 
nd  against  me, 
T  efforts.  She 
e  her  Christian 

that  you  have 
is  of  hearf,  that 


As  we  drove  to  the  station  my  aunt,  in  blandest  tones,  said  to  me  : 
"  I  suppose  you  will  come  to  see  me  again  next  summer  ?  "  '•  You 
will  not  see  me  again  for  ten  years,"  I  pettishly  replied.  She  laughed 
and  said,  that  I  could  not  keep  away  from  the  woods  so  long.  I  re- 
plied, that  the  woods  were  like  herself,  they  did  not  treat  me  well ;  and 
I  never  cared  to  see  either  her  or  them  again. 

As  the  train  bore  us  away,  I  took  a  rapid  review  of  what  I  had 
seen  and  heard  during  my  stay  in  the  old  place  :  and,  as  I  recalled, 
one  by  one,  the  different  expressions  of  envy  and  disdain,  that  I  had 
seen  on  the  faces  of  my  old  school-companions  ;  and  remembered 
the  sly  hints,  that  some  worthy  dames  had  frequently  given  me,  both 
by  looks  and  words,  to  show,  that  they  felt  themselves  above  me  ;  I 
wound  up  my  reflections  by  a  meditation  founded  on  the  following 
moral  of  Gil  Bias  :  that  if  a  person  had  risen  from  poverty  to  wealth 
and  could  roll  around  in  his  carriage,  it  would  be  idle  for  him  to  im- 
agine, that  he  could  go  back  and  live  in  peace  in  the  place,  from  which 
he  went  away  barefooted  ;  for  the  country  people  would  not  stand  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHAT  JEALOUSY   LED  TO. — AN  ANGEL's  VISIT,  AND  ITS  DEPARTURE. 

THE   WORD   OF   GOD. 

The  poison  of  jealousy  administered  by  my  aunt  Mercy  seemed  to 
have  killed  the  affection,  of  which  my  husband  had  previously  been 
so  lavish.  From  the  day  we  left  Amenia,  he  treated  me  with  re- 
spectful, but  distant  formality.  He  uttered  no  word  of  complaint ; 
but  the  ceremonious  attentions,  which  he  paid  me,  were  more  galling 
to  my  pride  and  self-respect,  than  the  most  outspoken  upbraiding 
could  have  been.  My  nature  was  hungering  for  the  affection,  which 
my  pride  would  not  permit  me  to  beg.  The  demon  of  drink  seized 
hold  of  the  discontented  husband,  and  I,  the  wretched  wife  of  a  drunk- 
ard, was  left  to  the  insulting  pity  of  enemies  and  would-be  friends. 

I  expostulated  ;  but  to  no  avail  :  the  spell  was  broken  ;  my  influ- 
ence had  gone.  He  no  longer  invited  his  friends  to  call  on  us ;  I 
passed  the  greater  part  of  the  time  alone  ;  and  I  became  low-spirited, 
and  was  wasting  away  for  want  of  excitement.  . , 


i      h 


60 


THE  angel's   visit. 


I  s«  ?  '  ."  r  consolation  in  those  authors,  whose  style  fascinated 
me  m  uA  whose  ideas  were  in  harmony  with  my  new  convictions. 
Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  Gibbon,  were  my  constant  companions. 
These  three  authors  so  absorbed  and  delighted  me,  that  1  at  last  be- 
came indifferent  to  my  husband's  coldness  and  dissipated  life. 

At  the  moment,  when  I  found  myself  most  contented,  and  per- 
fectly resigned  to  be  left  to  myself,  an  event  happened,  which  brought 
back  to  me  his  estranged  affection.  I  was  to  become  a  mother.  He 
was  so  overjoyed,  when  I  announced  it  to  him,  that  he  fell  at  my  feet 
and  asked  me  to  forgive  him  liis  past  neglect,  and  immediately  re- 
commenced his  former  devotedness. 

He  again  invited  his  friends  to  visit  us.  They  were  curious  to 
know  the  cause  of  my  husband's  jealousy  ;  for  to  that  they  all  attributed 
my  late  seclusion.  I  threw  all  the  blame  of  our  quarrel  on  my  pious 
old  aunt. 

It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  May,  1861,  that  I  gave  birth  to  a 
daughter.  My  husband's  cup  of  happiness  seemed  to  be  brimming 
over.  He  ceased  to  attend  to  his  cfficia!  duties,  and  remained  con- 
stantly by  my  side. 

Months  passed  and  our  home  was  truly  hapjiy.  But  a  cloud  soon 
overshadowed  it  again.  Our  little  one  died,  and  with  her  expired 
all  our  domestic  happiness. 

My  husband  covered  the  little  bier  with  flowers,  and  remained  by 
it  all  the  while,  weeping,  and  pressing  the  marble  forehead  with  his 
lips. 

Many  thought  me  cold  and  unfeeling  in  that  I  did  not  show  sor- 
row, as  my  husband  did.  At  the  grave  I  could  not  weep.  But 
at  midnight,  when  the  rest  had  ceased  to  mourn,  I  would  stretch  out 
my  hand  to  find  my  infant's  head ;  and  my  hand  would  fall  heavily 
on  the  spot  where  that  little  head  had  lain.  Then  it  was  my  turn  to 
weep.  A  mortal  sickness  would  come  over  my  heart,  and  1  would 
sob  for  hours.  For  months,  I  would  weep  at  that  same  hour  j  until  at 
last  my  hand  forgot  to  seek  its  treasure,  and  then  I  wept  no  more. 

Months  afterwards  my  maid  told  me,  that  my  French  teacher  had 
baptized  my  child  shortly  before  she  died. 

From  the  day,  that  our  child  expired,  it  seemed  as  if  my  husband 
had  determined  to  do  himself  to  death  by  drink. 

We  were  staying  again  at  the  St.  Denis  Hotel.  One  morning  a 
happy  ray  of  sunshine  flitted  over  my  heart,  when  I  discovered,  that 


i 


lose  style  fascinated 
jniy  new  convictions. 
Jnstant  companions. 
lie,  that  I  at  last  be- 
jissipated  life. 

contented,  and  per- 

[ened,  which  brought 

Icome  a  mother.  He 

|iat  he  fell  at  niy  feel 

ind  immediately  re- 

ley  were  curious  to 
at  they  all  attributed 
quarrel  on  my  pious 

t  I  gave   birth  to  a 
led  to  be  brimming 
,  and  remained  con- 
But  a  cloud  soon 
d  with  her  expired 

s,  and  remained  by 
e  forehead  with  his 

did  not  show  sor- 
Id  not  weep.  But 
[  would  stretch  out 

would  fall  heavily 
n  it  was  my  turn  to 
leart,  and  I  would 
ame  hour  ;  until  at 
f  wept  no  more, 
rench  teacher  had 

as  if  my  husband 

One  morning  a 
I  discovered,  that 


WHAT  THE  WORD   OF  GOD   SAID, 


8i 


I  was  once  more  to  be  a  mother.  At  the  announcement,  my  hus- 
band, to  my  surprise  and  sorrow,  burst  into  tears.  "  I  can  n,'ver  love 
another  child,"  he  said;  "I  have  never  looked  at  one,  since  ours 
died ;  and  even  the  perfume  of  flowers  falls  like  a  pall  on  my  heart ; 
for  it  ever  recalls  the  night  we  first  met,  and  our  beloved  one's  bier. 
I  never  want  to  see  another  child."  He  tried  to  persuade  me  that 
it  could  not  live,  because  of  the  fatality,  that  was  hanging  over  him. 
He  wore  me  out  with  his  entreaties ;  and  when  he  saw,  that  I  would 
not  yield,  he  treated  me  unkindly. 

One  day  he  dealt  me,  as  if  by  accident,  a  terrible  blow.  Instantly 
the  thought  flashed  upon  me,  that  it  was  done  for  a  purpose. 

Still  writhing  with  pain,  I  placed  my  hand  on  my  heart,  and  made 
a  vow,  as  if  speaking  to  the  little  unborn :  *'  I  will  protect  you,"  I 
said,  "  while  I  have  breath." 

I  could  then  realize  how  intemperance  can  harden  the  kindest 
heart,  and  benumb  the  affections  of  the  most  unselfish. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  resolutely  refused  to  do  his  will  in 
regard  to  my  unborn  babe,  he  ill-treated  me,  as  he  had  never  done 
before. 

That  day  I  left  him  and  went  to  rny  old  friends,  the  family  of  the 
judge.  Shortly  after,  I  went  to  live  in  Brooklyn  ;  so  that  I  might  be 
near  my  sister  during  my  illness.  Soon  after  I  left  my  husband,  he 
lost  his  position  in  the  Custom  House.  I  tried  to  have  him  rein- 
stated, but  without  success.  Afterwards  I  would  occasionally  send 
him  money ;  for  I  knew,  that  he  must  be  utterly  destitute. 

One  day  I  received  a  package  containing  a  little  Bible  neatly 
bound.  No  name,  no  message,  came  with  it ;  and,  to  this  day,  I  do 
not  know,  who  sent  it. 

I  was  displeased,  that  any  one  should  send  me  such  a  token  ;  for 
I  felt,  that  it  was  intended,  as  a  silent  reproach. 

I  was  about  to  jiut  it  away  among  other  books  ;  when  the  thought 
struck  me,  that  I  should  open  it,  and  would  aj^ply  the  first  verse  I 
laid  my  eyes  upon,  to  myself  I  knelt  down,  and  prayed,  that  God 
would  say  something  to  me,  that  would  console  me.  I  then  opened 
the  Bible,  and  my  eyes  fell  at  once  on  a  verse,  which  spoke  threaten- 
ingly to  me,  and  called  me  by  a  name,  which  made  me  shudder.  I 
closed  the  book  with  a  slam,  and  threw  it  on  a  shelf,  saying  :  "  Stay 
there ;  I  will  never  open  you  again."  What  I  had  just  read,  de- 
pressed me  so,  that  1  began  to  weep.     I  felt ^  that  God  himself  had 


'Ml 


i 

i 

1 

I 
1 
I 
i 
i 


I 

I 


m        *  A  mother's  vow. 

spoken  to  me.  I  tried  to  shake  off  this  impression ;  but  I  would  shud- 
der every  time  I  saw  the  book,  which  had  so  wounded  me.  My  eyes 
fell  on  my  own  old  neglected  Bible.  I  exclaimed :  "  I  will  consult 
you  ;  and  see,  if  you  will  treat  me  better."  I  knelt  down  and 
opened  it ;  and  behold,  my  eyes  fell  on  a  verse  in  another  place, 
which  spoke  as  threateningly  to  me,  and  called  me  by  the  same  vile 
name. 

I  closed  the  book,  and  placed  it  beside  the  other  one  with  a  clash, 
saying  :  "  I  have  done  with  you  too."  I  wished,  I  had  not  consulted 
the  Bibles,  for  they  troubled  me  night  and  day.  The  very  sight  of 
them,  lying  together  on  the  shelf,  importuned  me  so,  that  I  hid  them 
out  of  sight  amidst  the  other  books.  But  I  could  always  feel  their 
presence,  and  even  in  my  sleep  the  menacing  words,  which  I  had 
read,  would  loom  up  before  me  in  letters  of  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXV. ' 

ADRIFT. 

On  the  5th  of  October,  1862,  I  gave  birth  to  a  little  girl.  When  the 
child  was  jilaced  in  my  arms,  I  laid  it  on  my  breast,  and  prayed  God, 
that  her  life  might  not  be  as  sad,  as  mine  had  been  ;  and,  placing  my 
hands  over  her,  I  made  a  vow,  that  I  would  be  a  good  mother.  I 
thought  of  my  own  mother ;  and  I  pressed  my  child  closer  to  my 
bosom,  as  I  said  :  "  Lord,  1  know,  that  you  will  forgive  me  all  my 
sins,  if  I  become  a  good  mother."  It  was  in  trying  to  be  faithful  to 
that  vow,  that  I  finally  found  peace. 

Our  civil  war  had  then  been  raging  for  nearly  two  years,  and  from 
the  extensive  acquaintance,  that  I  had  made,  in  Washington,  of 
men,  who  had  since  risen  to  high  positions  in  the  Federal  service,  I 
became  very  useful  to  several  prominent  men  residing  in  New  York 
and  Brooklyn,  who  were  then  holding  high  and  lucrative  offices 
under  the  Fedeic.1  government.  Several  of  these  gentlemen  were 
closely  allied  by  blood  to  men,  who  were  in  open  rebellion  against 
the  government.  Some  of  these  persons,  having  large  families,  had 
been  cast  into  prison ;  and  tliey  appealed  to  their  northern  relatives 


I  would  shud- 
me.  My  eyes 
I  will  consult 
elt  down  and 
nother  place, 

the  same  vile 

;  with  a  clash, 

not  consulted 

very  sight  of 

>at  I  hid  them 

t'ays  feel  their 

which  I  had 


i 
•% 

•i 
,4 


INTRIGUES. 


85 


rl.  When  the 
1  prayed  God, 
d,  placing  my 
d  mother.  I 
closer  to  my 
ve  me  all  my 
be  faithful  to 

ars,  and  from 
shington,  of 
ral  service,  I 
n  New  York 
•ative  offices 
itlemen  were 
;llion  against 
families,  had 
ern  relatives 


for  assistance.  But  the  latter  did  not  always  dare  to  do,  what  they 
would  have  wished,  in  favor  of  their  southern  kindred.  The  govern- 
ment had  hosts  of spie,,  even  in  the  post-offices,  who  were  ever  on 
the  alert,  and  too  willing  to  report  against  those,  who  appeared  to 
be  disloyal.  I  went  eainestly  to  work  to  secure  the  liberation  of 
some  of  these  men,  without  compromising  their  friends,  whom  I  was 
serving.  In  several  cases  I  was  able,  by  merely  writing  energetic . 
letters  to  persons  in  power,  to  release  them,  or  at  least  to  alleviate 
their  condition.  Their  northern  friends  were  very  grateful  to  me, 
and  wished  to  remunerate  me  by  large  sums  of  money  ;  which  I  re- 
fused to  accept. 

T  wanted  their  infucnce.  I  knew,  that  they  had  become  gratefully 
attached  to  me  on  account  of  the  discretion,  which  I  had  used  in 
serving  them ;  and  I  knew,  that  I  could  rely  upon  their  servin^-  me, 
whenever  I  needed  them.  I  refused  their  money,  that  they  might 
not  feel,  that  their  indebtedness  to  me  had  been  acquitted.  I  had 
another  class  of  acquaintances,  some  holding  lucrative  positions 
under  the  government,  and  others  not  so  fortunate  ;  but  both  united 
in  their  endeavors  to  ship  contraband  goods  to  the  South.  So  I 
made  use  of  the  former,  whom  I  had  served,  to  assist  the  latter,  who 
paid  me  liberally  for  it.  About  this  time,  I  could  have  made  some 
reports  on  the  oj)erations  of  revenue  and  fiscal  laws,  which  would 
have  been  decidedly  more  amusing  reading,  than  the  reports  of  Mr. 
Chase. 

I  had  no  sooner  left  my  husband,  than  all  his  affection  for  me 
returned.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  exciting  intrigues,  that  his  en- 
treaties for  forgiveness  would  reach  me  ;  which,  together  with  the 
menacing  words  I  had  opened  at  in  the  Bible,  made  me  carry  a  heavy 
and  dejected  heart.  I  was  like  one,  who  had  sold  herself  to  so  many 
friends  ;  and  they  held  me  as  their  slave.  They  gave  me  to  under- 
stand, that  I  was  no  longer  free;  that  it  was  my  duty  to  protect 
them  ;  and  with  anxious  looks  they  would  tell  me  all  the  danger,  to 
which  I  would  expose  them  by  renewing  my  relations  with  my  hus- 
band. Then  they  would  dwell  on  the  risk,  which  I  would  run  my- 
self ;  for,  when  the  first  ebullition  of  happiness  had  passed,  he  would 
surely  demand  explanation.  They  pictured  to  me  his  revenge.  And, 
lastly,  they  insisted  on  the  wretched  condition,  to  which  he  was  re- 
duced. 

I  longed  to  return  to  him ;  but  I  durst  not.     I  yielded  to  the  fears 


84  BOUND  FAST. 

of  a  guilty  consciehce,  and  to  the  persuasions  of  those,  who  held  me 
bound,  as  in  a  coil ;  and  i  never  permitted  him  to  see  his  child,  or 
even  to  know  where  I  was. 

I  left  Brooklyn  in  the  latter  part  of  November,  1862,  and  came  to 
reside  in  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
A  poet's  death-bed. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  evening  in  January,  1863,  when  one  of  my 
husband's  acquaintances  called  to  ask  me  for  money,  to  aid  my  hus- 
band, who  was  ill.  He  showed  me  a  letter,  which  he  had  just  re- 
ceived in  regard  to  him.  The  letter  was  written  in  an  elegant  feminine 
hand,  and  evidently  by  a  lady  of  culture  and  refinement.  I  handed 
the  man  some  money,  and  begged  him  to  let  me  accompany  him ; 
but  he  firmly  refused,  alleging,  as  an  excuse,  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
and  the  severity  of  the  weather.  He  even  refused  to  give  me  the 
address,  lest,  as  he  said,  I  might  persist  in  braving  the  cold,  to  go  to 
my  husband. 

.  I  passed  a  feverish  night,  and  awoke  from  a  disturbed  slumber, 
just  as  the  clock  struck  five.  I  anxiously  awaited  the  dawn,  fully  de- 
termined to  go  at  once  and  urge  this  gentleman  to  give  me  my  hus- 
band's address. 

As  I  was  about  to  go  out,  the  judge's  wife,  and  one  of  my  husband's 
friends,  came  to  tell  me,  that  my  husband  was  dead. 

His  friend  said,  that  he  could  not  tell  me  where  his  body  was ;  for 
my  husband  had  made  his  friends  promise,  that  they  would  never  let 
me  know.  But  the  judge's  wife  gave  me  the  address,  and  I  immedi- 
ately drove  to  the  place. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  row  of  newly  built  tenement-houses, 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  We  ascended  a  dark  staircase,  which 
brought  us  to  the  entrance  of  the  rear  apartment  on  the  second  floor. 
The  door  was  slightly  ajar,  and  I  pushed  it  partly  open.  The  first 
thing  I  saw,  was  a  woman  of  about  thirty,  with  bloated  face  and  be- 
wildered looks,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  her  face 
towards  us.     She  started,  when  she  saw  me,  and,  springing  forward^ 


dead! 


$§ 


,  who  held  me 
;e  his  child,  or 

2,  and  came  to 


len  one  of  my 
to  aid  my  hus- 
he  had  just  re- 
legant  feminine 
ent.  I  handed 
company  him ; 
:ss  of  the  hour, 
to  give  me  the 
e  cold,  to  go  to 

urbed  slumber, 
dawn,  fully  de- 
ve  me  my  hus- 

f  my  husband's 

body  was ;  for 

i^ould  never  let 

and  I  immedi- 

lement-houses, 
taircase,  which 
e  second  floor, 
en.  The  first 
I  face  and  be- 
with  her  face 
nging  forward^ 


placed  her  hand  on  the  door,  and  asked  what  I  wanted.  When  I 
told  her,  that  I  had  come  to  see  my  dead  husband,  she  withdrew  a  few 
steps  in  apparent  confusion.  As  she  recovered  from  her  emotion,  she 
looked  steadily  at  me,  and  said ;  "I  know  you  now  ;  — I  have  seen 
your  portrait ;  you  are  the  cold  ambitious  one ;  you  will  find  him  in 
there  ; " — and  she  pointed  to  the  bedroom. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  enter,  she  seized  me  by  the  arm,  and  drew 
me  with  a  frantic  gesture  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  began  to  weep. 

For  a  moment  I  wondered,  if  we  had  not  made  a  mistake  ;  feeling, 
that  such  a  debauched-looking  woman  could  hardly  have  been  the 
writer  of  that  note  ;  when  I  saw  my  husband's  portfolio  on  the  table. 
I  pushed  the  woman  from  me,  and  went  alone  into  the  bedroom. 
There  upon  an  old  straw  mattress,  without  sheets,  or  any  covering, 
save  an  old  worn  blanket,  and  no  pillow,  but  his  folded  coat,  lay 
the  lifeless  form  of  my  husband.  He  was  beautiful  in  death.  His 
face  ha^  the  genial  expression,  which  it  wore  in  happier  days.  My 
grief  was  so  poignant,  that  the  blood  seemed  to  congeal  in  my  veins. 
1  rested  on  the  side  of  the  bed  for  support,  and  having  looked  st  ead- 
fastly  at  him  for  a  few  seconds,  I  leaned  ovf  r  his  dead  body,  and,  with 
bowed  head,  I  humbly  asked  God  and  hi-  departed  soul  to  forgive 
me ;  for  I  felt,  that  had  I  been  a  devoted  wife,  this  might  not  have 
been. 

The  woman  came  and  stood  beside  me,  sobbing  and  weeping. 
She  looked  at  me,  then  at  my  husband.  At  last  she  sobbed  out: 
"  This  is  what  he  dreaded  most,  and  what  tortured  his  last  moments. 
He  feared,  that_>'^«  Would  come  and  find  him  here  ;  and  he  begged 
rather  to  be  dragged  to  die  in  the  street."  "Ah  !"  said  she, — and 
she  pushed  me  towards  the  corpse, — ^^you  broke  his  heart ;  for  you 
would  not  let  him  see  his  child.  He  waited  three  months,  daily 
and  hourly  hoping  to  get  a  message  from  you,  to  come ;  but  it  never 
came,  and  he  said  he  could  not  live ;  and  so  he  died  by  drink.  I 
wanted  to  die  with  him.  I  knew  him  long  before  he  knew  you.  I 
loved  him ;  but  he  loved  you.  You  abandoned  him ;  but  I  closed 
his  eyes  in  death,  I  knew  that  he  was  dying ;  the  physician  told  me, 
that  he  could  not  live  till  morning.  I  feared,  that  the  candle  would 
go  out,  and  leave  us  in  the  dark ;  and  that  he  might  die,  when  I  could 
not  see  to  close  his  eyes.  But  it  lasted  just  long  enough ;  and  you 
see  I  did  it  well." 

She  gently  passed  her  hand  over  his  eyes;  and  then  leaned  over 


86 


POETRY  AND  DEATH. 


and  picked  up  from  the  floor,  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  a  tin  candle* 
stick,  on  whose  top  ckmg  a  small  black  wick  burnt  to  a  crisp.  She 
showed  it  to  me,  then  gave  it  a  tender  grateful  look,  and  replaced  it 

carefully  on  the  floor.     "  But,"  said  I,  "  did  not  Mr. come  last 

night  and  give  you  some  money  ?  "  "  No,"  she  replied  :  "he  came 
this  morning,  and  when  he  found,  that  Mr.  Eckel  was  dead,  he  left 
me,  without  saying  a  word." 

I  handed  some  money  to  the  woman,  and  told  her  to  buy  fuel ; 
for  the  room  was  so  cold,  that  although  wrapt  in  furs,  I  was  shivering. 
I  left  the  bedroom  and  came  into  the  room  I  had  first  entered.  This 
room  had  two  narrow  windoivs,  which  gave  but  a  cheerless  light,  on 
account  of  the  projection  of  another  building,  ^t  seemed,  that  no 
ray  of  sunshine  could  have  ever  penetrated  there.  The  furniture 
consisted  of  two  wooden  chairs,  a  table,  and  an  old  cooking-stove. 
I  asked  the  woman  how  they  had  managed  to  live.  She  told  me, 
that  they  had  sold,  or  pawned,  nearly  every  article  of  clothing  and 
furniture,  to  provide  bread ;  until  all  was  disposed  of,  but  the  few 
pieces  I  saw  in  this  room.  She  added,  that  my  husband  from  time 
to  time  wrote  poetry  for  the  Sunday  yitlas  and  the  Evening  Post ; 
and  these  journals  paid  him  well. 

The  following  was  written  in  lead-pencil,  and  lay  carelessly  on  the 
table : 


Say  who  be  this  so  strangely  fair, 

That  meets  me  on  life's  fitful  river  ? 
Deep  shadows  loop  her  raven  hair, 

And  stars  upon  her  forehead  quiver. 

O  who  be  this  so  strangely  fair, 

With  step  so  light,  yet  cold  her  breath? 
O  she  will  take  my  vacant  chair, — 

I  know  and  love  thee  now,  ^weet  Death  1 

A  few  days  before  he  died,  he  had  risen  ?.t  midnight  and  written 
some  verses.  He  told  her,  the  next  day,  that,  if  he  should  die,  she 
should  takt  them  to  the  At/as  office,  and  she  could  bury  him  with 
the  proceeds.  Saying  this,  she  took  up  the  portfolio,  which  lay  upon 
the  table,  and  held  it  closely  to  her,  as  though  she  were  afraid,  that 
I  might  claim  it  and  its  contents. 

I  inquired  how  my  husband  had  spoken  of  me  ;  and  I  dreaded  to 
hear  her  answer.     She  replied,  that  his  mind  was  ever  running  on 


death's  welcome. 


87 


a  tin  candle* 
a  crisp.  She 
nd  replaced  it 

-  come  last 
id:  "he  came 

dead,  he  left 

r  to  buy  fuel ; 

was  shivering. 

entered.    This 

jrless  light,  on 
emed,  that  no 

The  furniture 
cooking-stove. 

She  told  me, 
f  clothing  and 
)f,  but  the  few 
md  from  time 
Evening  Post; 

relessly  on  the 


t  and  written 
lould  die,  she 
bury  liim  with 
hich  lay  upon 
re  afraid,  that 

I  dreaded  to 
r  running  on 


me,  and  that  he  would  often  say :  "  How  could  she  treat  me  so  ? 
not  to  let  me  see  my  child  !  It  kills  me,  it  breaks  my  heart."  "  I 
have  heard  enough,"  I  exclaimed ;  and  I  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
I  was  descending  the  stairs,  when  the  woman  came  after  me,  and, 
seizing  me  with  both  hands,  drew  me  back  into  the  room.  She 
begged  me  not  to  leave  her.  She  had  no  money  to  bury  him,  she 
said,  and  no  clothes  even,  nor  a  bonnet,  with  which  to  go  out.  I 
told  her,  that  it  was  my  intention  to  do  everything,  that  was 
needed.     At  this  she  threw  her  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me. 

"But,"  said  she,  "let  me  tell  you  all."  "Ah,  no,"  I  cried;  "for 
he  must  have  cursed  me.  "No,  no,"  she  said :  "he  always  loved 
you  ;  the  one  thing  he  said  was,  that  you  were  too  ambitious,  ever 
sacrificing  the  present  for  the  future.  But  let  me  tell  you  how, 
just  before  he  died,  his  countenance  lit  up,  and  that  sweet  express 
sion  came  over  his  face,  which  it  still  retains;  and,  stretching  forth' 
his  arms,  he  pointed  upward,  and  exclaimed ;  '  The  portals  of 
Heaven  are  opening  ; '  and  he  nearly  screamed,  out :  'There,  there 
are  my  wife  and  child,  the  same  as  in  Chili.  Oh,  see,  she  beckons 
nw  to  come  to  her  now.  Oh,  welcome  Death  !  how  glad  I  am  to 
leave  this  world.  Come,  sweet  Death,  and  take  me  quickly  ;  I  long 
to  go.'  Those  were  his  last  words.  After  he  had  said  this,  he  made 
but  a  few  respirations  at  long  intervals,  and  then  all  was  still ; — he 
was  dead.  I  closed  his  eyes,  and  crossed  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
as  you  see  them  now.  I  had  hardly  done  so,  when  I  heard  a  neigh- 
boring clock  strike  five,  and  then  the  candle  went  out,  and  I  was 
left  in  the  dark.  I  tcok  the  blanket  off  his  corpse,  wrapt  it  around 
nie,  and  walked  the  room  till  morning.  Then  I'  wrote  two  letters, 
and  a  neighbor  took  them  to  his  friends." 

When  the  woman  had  ended  her  story,  I  begged  her  to  tell  me, 
who  she  was.  She  told  me.  Her  father  lived  in  Syracuse,  and  her 
husband,  who  had  abandoned  her,  was  a  captain  in  the  Federal 
army.  "I  will  give  you  some  money;"  I  said,  "and  you  must  go 
back  to  your  father."  "  Ah,  never,  never,"  she  replied  ;  but  she 
begged  me  to  give  her  money,  that  she  might  get  the  clothing  which 
she  had  pawned. 

This  strange  being  was  highly  educated,  and  her  manners  were 
tliose  of  a  refined  lady  ;  yet  she  was  one  of  the  most  debauched-look- 
ing  creatures  1  ha  -e  ever  beheld.  Her  face  was  somethinji  revoltin<r 
to  look  upon ;  and  the  contrast  between  her  speech  and  her  looks 


88 


somebody's  daughter. 


i! 


was  such,  and  her  intonations  were  so  softly  refined,  tliat,  if  you  look- 
ed upon  her  face,  while  she  spoke,  her  words  would  appear  like  so 
many  sparkling  dewdrops  oozing  out  of  some  stagnant  pool.  She  i:ii- 
plored  me  not  to  leave  her ;  for  she  dreaded  to  be  alone  ;  and  it  was 
only  through  the  assistance  of  my  friend,  that  I  could  disengage  my- 
self from  her.  She  followed  us  down  stairs  to  the  sidewalk.  My 
friend  got  into  the  carriage.  Before  I  did  so,  I  turned  to  bid  this 
woman  good-by ;  but  she  had  gone.  We  had  hardly  driven  twenty 
paces,  before  I  caught  sight  of  the  woman,  standing  before  the  coun- 
ter in  a  rum-shop,  in  the  act  of  handing  to  the  man  behind  the  coun- 
ter  a  bank-note,  the  one  I  had  just  given  her. 

How  events  repeat  themselves !  Why  should  that  woman  have 
stood  there,  just  at  that  time,  to  recall  to  me  the  last  time,  that  I  saw 
my  mother  ?  It  was  only  years  after,  that  I  found  the  answer  to  this 
question  ;  when  the  devil,  taking  advantage  of  my  dejection,  sought 
to  enlist  me  in  the  ranks  of  the  unfortunate  women,  who  vainly 
attempt  to  drown  sorrow  in  the  cup.  The  remembrance  of  the  cir- 
cumstances, under  which  I  last  saw  my  mother  ;  and  of  that  wretched 
woman,  who  had  closed  my  husband's  eyes, — as  I  saw  her  in  the  bar- 
room,— saved  me  from  the  abyss.  Those  sad  scenes  were,  as  I  have 
since  learned,  among  the  greatest  graces,  that  I  had  received  from 
God. 

After  making  all  other  arrangements  for  the  interment,  I  went  to 
my  brother-in-law,  and  asked  him  to  have  our  child's  grave  reopened, 
that  I  might  bury  my  husband  with  her,  and  fulfil  a  promise  he  had 
asked  of  me  at  hei-  open  grave, — that  I  would  let  her  rest  on  his 
breast.  • 

I  returned  home  with  a  heart  bowed  down  with  grief.  I  clasped 
my  child  to  my  bosom,  and  renewed  the  vow,  that  I  would  be  a  good 
mother.  I  tried  to  nourish  her ;  but  my  emotions  had  been  too 
much  for  me  ;  anc',  from  that  day,  my  breasts  refused  all  nutriment. 

The  next  morning  my  brother-in-law  told  me,  with  saddened  coun- 
tenance, that  my  sister  objected  to  letting  my  husband  be  buried  in 
their  lot ;  but  that  he  had  bought  a  grave  in  Greenwood,  in  a  pleasant 
enclosure,  not  far  from  his  own ;  so  that  my  husband  would  not  be 
far  from  his  child. 

The  nth  of  January,  1863,  was  a  bleak,  wintry  da}'.  I  was  in 
Greenwood,  standing  by  the  sic'^  of  an  open  grave,  waiting,  while 
some  men  disinterred  my  babe ;  for  1  had  insisted,  that  her  remains 


THE  TWO   COFFINS. 


89 


should  be  placed  upon  my  husband's  breast.  His  coffin  had  been 
lowered  into  the  earth ;  but  not  a  clor'  had  yet  been  thrown  upon  it. 
The  wind  blew  mournfully  around  me,  and  kept  up  a  doleful  melody, 
as  though  nature  were  moaning  a  dirge  for  the  departed.  I  wa» 
standing  all  alone ;  for  the  friends,  who  had  accompanied  me,  had 
withdrawn,  and  were  walking  up  and  down  among  the  graves.  They 
had  tried  to  persuade  me  to  leave,  assuring  me,  that  my  wishes  would 
be  obeyed.  But  I  must  see  for  myself  so  sacred  a  trust  fulfilled ;  and 
I  persisted  in  remaining. 

At  last  I  saw  two  men  coming,  bearing  a  little  coffin.  My  heart 
melted ;  for  the  first  thought,  that  came  to  me,  was,  that  it  contained 
that  precious  iittle  head,  whose  touch  used  to  thrill  my  heart  with  so 
much  joy.  I  bade  the  men  place  the  little  burden  on  his  breast ;  and, 
when  I  heard  the  two  coffins  touch,  I  felt  relieved.  I  leaned  over 
and  gave  them  both  a  long  parting  look  ;  but,  as  I  saw  my  tears  drop 
into  the  grave,  I  felt  how  different  all  would  bo,  could  I  place  my  hand 
upcn  my  breast,  and  say  that  I  had  always  done  my  duty,  as  a  wife. 

The  following  Sunday  a  friend  brought  me  The  Atlas.  It  con- 
tained the  poem,  which  my  husband  had  written  a  few  nights  before 
he  died.  It  always  makes  me  sad  to  read  it,  and  often  have  I  mois- 
tened it  witli  my  tears.  For  I  cannot  read  it,  without  seeing  his  sickly 
form  sitting  by  that  table,  during  a  cold  winter's  night,  in  that  cheer- 
less room,  with  his  debauched  companion.  There  he  sits,  regretting 
sunnier  days  ;  and,  by  the  feeble  glimmer  of  a  candle-light,  he  writes 
this  poem,  believing  it  may  pay  the  expenses  of  his  burial. 

IWriitenfor  the  New  York  Atlas. ^ 
EVENING  MUSINGS, 


BY  THE   LATE   SAMUEL   ECKEL. 
(his  last  rOEM.) 

The    evening  star  is  in  the  sky, 
The  bahny  wind  is  whist ;  but,  oh  ! 

My  soul  is  very  sad,  and  why  ? 
I'm  thhiking  of  tho  long  ago. 

The  maple-leaves  have  gone  to  sleep ; 

The  lonely  moon  is  still  awake ; 
And  by  her  gentle  light  I  weep : 

My  heart  can  oleed  but  cannot  break. 


r 


i! 


'1    I 


90  GRAVE-FI.OWERS. 

The  days  of  childhood,  sweet  as  morn — 

My  playmates,  too,  each  wilh  a  toy — 
That  lilest  the  home  where  I  was  born, 

And  made  me  iiappy  when  a  boy, — 

Have  vanished  iike  an  April  gift 

or  crocus-blooms  when  fields  were  green  ;  , 

When  singing-birds  on  pinions  swift 
Gave  life  and  beauty  to  the  scene. 

The  hours  of  youth,  with  dreams  of  bliss 

All  filled  with  starry  hopes  for  me, 
Have  faded,  too,  and  left  but  this:  — 
A  dark  an  J  gloomy  YET  TO  BE. 
Januarj'  sth,  1863. 

One  suimner's  day,  when  the  sun  shone  brightly,  I  went  to  Green- 
wood, and  by  his  grave  I  passed  the  day.  On  his  bosom  I  planted 
the  rose,  the  heliotrope,  and  the  violet, — his  favorite  flowers ;  and  at 
his  head  I  placed  an  ivy,  which  I  entwined  around  a  little  marble 
slab,  whereon  is  simply  inscribed  : 

TO  . 

MV  HUSBAND 

AND 

MY  DARLING  BABE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


PARIS. — THE   AMERICAN   COLONY. — I   AM   PRESENTED  AT   COURT. 

I  RECEIVED  more  congratulations  on  account  of  my  husband's  death, 
than  were  offered  me  at  the  time  of  our  marriage.  But  they  would 
send  through  me  a  bitter  pang  ;  for  I  sincerely  mourned  him.  Yet  I 
tried  to  conceal  my  grief,  lest  others  should  suspect  me  of  affectation. 
My  sorrow  would  betray  itself,  however,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to 
conceal  it ;  for  I  soon  lost  my  ambition  and  energy,  and  became  de- 
spondent and  discouraged. 

I  then  began  to  seek  encouragement,  and  hope,  by  consulting  for- 
tune-tellers, spiritualists,  and  clairvoyants  ;  a  habit  I  had  indulged  in 
during  my  married  life,  without  my  husband's  knowledge,  but  which, 


PEERING   INTO  FUTURITY. 


9t 


ED  AT   COURT. 


after  his  de!ith,  I  carried  to  great  excess.  I  had  faith  in  whatever 
these  persons  told  me.  F"or  a  while,  indeed,  my  faith  in  the  spiritual- 
ists was  somewhat  shaken,  as  they  had  all  predicted,  that  my  child 
would  be  a  boy.  I  called  them  to  account  for  having  deceived  me, 
as  I  had  already  selected  a  boy's  name,  and  had  marked  some  of  the 
baby-clothes  with  the  initial.  All  the  satisfaction  I  got  from  them 
was,  that  they  appeared  as  much  surprised  as  myself. 

As  soon  as  my  husband  died,  I  went  to  a  strange  medium,  whom  I 
happened  to  see  advertised.  I  had  hardly  sat  down  at  the  table  be- 
fore this  woman  wrote  out  my  husband's  name.  This  restored  my 
confidence  ;  and  I  would  go  regularly  to  consult  the  spirits,  whenever 
I  became  doubtful  and  sad  in  regard  to  the  future.  But  spiritualists 
and  soothsayers  would  occasionally  contradict  each  other.  Not- 
withstanding their  disagreement  in  minor  things,  (and  I  consulted 
every  one  I  saw  advertised),  they  were  all  of  an  accord  in  the  one 
all-important  matter,  that  I  would  marry  a  tall,  wealthy,  distinguished 
blond  ;  that  he  would  die  very  suddenly  and  of  an  accident,  about 
five  or  six  years  after  marriage  ;  that  I  would  inherit  his  estates,  and 
would  marry  again  for  love  ;  that  1  would  outlive  number  three,  and 
live  to  a  good  old  age. 

My  maid  was  a  young  German  woman,  whose  husband  had  aban- 
doned her,  and  had  left  her  heart-stricken  and  wretched.  She  would 
lull  my  babe  to  sleep,  singing  to  it  the  most  melancholy  German  airs. 
She  had  a  sweet,  sympathetic  voice  ;  and  those  plaintive  melodies 
were  the  only  sounds,  that  accorded  with  my  saddened  heart.  I 
sought  to  be  alone  with  her  and  my  child.  My  old  exciting  mode  of 
life  had  become  distasteful  to  nic ;  and,  one  by  one,  my  friends  aban- 
doned me.  I  had  lost  all  my  gayety  and  energy,  and  was  conse- 
quently incapable  of  serving  or  diverting  them. 

In  a  few  months  my  jiarlor  was  deserted  by  all,  with  the  exception 
of  two  or  three  faithful  friends  ;  and  they  happened  to  be  the  few, 
whom  it  had  never  been  in  my  power  to  serve.  I  was  speaking  with 
them  one  day  about  the  future.  I  proposed  to  study  two  years  more 
and  then  to  g.>  to  Europe.     But  they  all  advised  me  to  go  at  once. 

These  gentlemen  gave  me  letters  of  introduction  to  their  acquaint- 
ances abroad  ;  and  I  left  with  my  maid  and  child  in  July,  1863. 

Our  steamer  glided  over  the  Atlantic  as  smoothly,  as  if  we  were  sail- 
ing on  some  silvery  lake.  Not  a  gale  arose,  hardly  a  cloud  appeared 
in  the  horizon,  frona  our  departure,  till  we  came  within  sight  of  port 


m 


BEAUTIFUL   FRANCE. 


Never  shall  I  forget  my  feelings,  when  I  first  laid  eyes  ©n  the  shores 
of  France.  The  very  air  infused  into  me  a  new  life.  In  an  instant 
every  trace  of  sorrow  disappeared  from  my  heart,  as  though  it  had 
been  touched  by  some  magic  wand.  I  felt  like  a  happy  child.  As  we 
passed  through  the  streets  of  Havre,  I  kept  looking  up  at  the  sky  and 
constantly  exclaiming  :  "  What  a  beautiful  blue  !  " 

My  maid  too,  for  the  first  time,  threw  off  her  grief,  and  began  to 
smile ;  and  my  babe  clapped  her  little  hands,  and  gladdened  us  both 
with  her  infantine  laughter. 

We  went  along,  like  a  group  of  merry  birds,  that  had  just  discovered 
a  genial  clime.  I  kept  continually  stopping  to  embrace  my  child. 
My  heart  was  so  flooded  with  delight,  that  I  could  have  kissed  the 
very  pebbles,  over  which  we  walked.  1  did  not  feel  like  a  stranger, 
who  had  just  arrived  in  a  foreign  land ;  but  more  like  an  exile,  who 
had  just  come  home.  The  genial  expression  of  the  passers-by  ;  every- 
thing, in  a  word,  gave  joy.  Even  the  signs,  which  hung  over  the  shops, 
seemed  to  welcome  us  with  a  bewitching  grace ;  and  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly the  first  sign,  which  attracted  my  gaze.  It  was  an  immense 
picture  of  our  Lord  carrying  a  lamb,  and  the  shop  was  named  ^^/la 
Bon  Pasteur, — Of  the  Good  Shepherd'^ — We  looked  into  the  sliop, 
to  see  what  it  meant ;  and  we  began  to  laugh,  when  we  saw  it  filled  with 
children's  clothes;  and  a  lot  of  little  children  there  trying  them  on. 

We  got  into  the  train  ;  and  it  seemed,  as  though  we  were  passing 
through  one  continual  garden,  from  the  time  we  left  Harve,  till  we 
reached  Paris. 

I  kept  humming  to  myself,  all  the  way,  the  first  verse  of  an  old 
French  song  called  "  Ma  Normandie  : " 

"  Quand  tout  reiiait  h.  I'esperance, 

Et  que  I'hiver  fuit  loin  ile  nous  ; 
Sous  le  beau  ciel  de  notre  France, 

Quaiid  le  soleil  revient  plus  doux  ; 
Quand  la  Nature  est  reverdie  ; 

Quand  I'hirondelle  est  de  retour  ; 
J'aime  a  revoir  ma  Norm.indie  ; 

C'est  le  pays,  qui  m'a  donne  le  jour." 

Of  which  I  would  submit  the  following,  as  an  attempt  at  a  transla- 


tion: 


A 


When  to  new  hope  from  their  long  trance 
All  things  revive  ;  and  winter  flees ; 


PARIS   AND  THE  PANTHEON. 


93 


It  verse  of  an  old 


:mpt  at  a  transla^ 


'Neath  the  sweet  sky  of  our  loved  France, 

As  milder  suns  embahii  each  breeze  ; 
When  earth  dons  her  green  livery, 

And  swallows  homeward  wing  their  flight ; 
Fain  would  I  see  my  Normandy 

Once  more,  where  first  I  saw  the  light. 

Just  before  we  reached  Paris,  we  heard  a  voice  from  an  adjoining 
coach  exclaim  :  "  Voi/d  fans  /  "  1  looked,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw 
was  the  Arch  of  Triumph  and  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon.  I  see  them 
still,  as  I  saw  them  then  ;  and  even  now  they  send  through  my  heart 
a  pleasing  thrill.  In  that  instant,  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  air,  the 
Arch  of  Triumph  and  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  all  seemed  to  bid 
me  a  joyful  welcome,  and  to  foretell  a  happy  future.  They  have  kept 
their  promise  ;  but  the  Pantheon  was  the  last  to  put  the  seal  of  ful- 
filment on  that,  which  then  spoke  so  vividly  to  my  soul  and  said  : 
"  Thou  shalt  be  happy  yet !  " 

We  put  up  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  On  the  steamer  I  had  made 
the  acciuaintance  of  a  lady  and  gentleman,  who  were  on  their  wed- 
ding tour.  They  were  Cubans  ;  and,  as  I  spoke  Spanish,  we  soon 
became  friends  ;  and  they  proposed,  that  we  should  visit  the  monu- 
ments and  churches  in  Paris  together.  "  Yes,"  said  I ;  *'  but  we 
will  visit  first  the  tombs  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau."  I  felt  as  if  it 
were  a  homage,  that  I  owed  to  the  memory  of  those  two  philosophers, 
who  had  contributed  so  much  to  enliven  my  solitude,  when  neglected 
by  my  husband. 

We  went  to  the  Pantheon  ;  and  at  once  descended  into  its  vaults, 
and  walked  through  their  serpentine  passages,  until  we  reached  the 
tomb  of  Voltaire.  I  became  mournfully  sad  during  the  few  moments, 
that  1  stood  by  his  tomb. 

As  I  reflectingly  gazed  on  his  statue,  I  regretted  not  having 
brought  a  garland  to  hang  on  the  lyre,  which  his  statue  represents 
him  holding  in  his  hand.  After  remaining  there  a  few  moments,  we 
passed  on  to  Rousseau's  tomb.  No  marble  statue  was  there  to 
honor  his  memory.  A  small  monument,  on  the  side  of  which  was 
sculptured  a  sinewy  arm,  and  a  hand  bearing  a  lighted  torch,  did 
honor  to  the  dead  philosopher.  Some  one  remarked,  that  the  device 
meant,  that  Rousseau  came  into  the  world  to  bring  Discord.  I 
turned  to  the  speaker,  and  replied,  that  that  was  a  misinterpretation  ; 
for  the  torch  meant,  that  he  came  to  enlighten  the  world.     "  Then," 


r 


:94 


ST,    GENEVIEVE. 


answered  the  speaker,  "  if  such  is  the  lights  I  prefer  the  obscurity, 
which  preceded." 

As  we  ascended  the  steps  leading  from  the  vaults,  I  thought  what 
a  pity  it  was,  that  two  such  men  could  not  have  been  immortal.  All 
at  once  I  discovered,  that  I  was  separated  from  my  companions,  who 
were  placing  themselves  in  positions,  to  get  a  good  view  of  the  fres- 
coer  on  the  concave  ceiling  of  the  rotunda. 

I  merely  threw  them  a  fugitive  glance,  and  then  continued 
to  walk  along,  without  caring  which  way  I  went,  or  even  remarking, 
what  was  before  me,  until  suddenly  I  found  myself  before  a  railing, 
which  barred  my  progress,  I  looked  up,  and  to  my  surprise,  I  was 
standing  before  a  beautiful  altar  erected  to  Saint  Genevieve,  patron 
saint  of  Paris.  Directly  over  the  tabernacle  was  placed  an  antique 
statue,  which  represented  the  saint  in  the  garb  of  a  shepherdess.  I 
first  looked  steadily  at  the  statue,  then  at  the  altar,  and  then  at  an 
elderly  priest,  who  was  sitting  to  the  right  in  the  sanctuary,  saying  his 
beads.  By  his  side  were  many  lighted  candles,  which  the  faithful  had 
placed  there  in  honor  of  Saint  Genevieve,  whose  intercession  they 
implored. 

I  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  devotion,  which  was  paid  to  this 
saint.  Crutches,  and  other  memorials  of  gratitude,  were  hung  about 
the  sanctuary.  Old  men,  women,  and  children  were  kneeling  around 
the  altar,  and,  with  upturned  faces,  and  clasped  hands,  were  earnestly 
invoking  St.  Genevieve's  protection.  After  making  a  slight  reflection 
on  a  sight,  that  was  to  me  so  strange  and  yet  so  interesting,  I  looked 
up  again  at  the  statue  ;  and  this  time  I  mentally  exclaimed  : 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  it !  " 

"  I  will  try  you.  good  saint,"  said  I,  "  and,  if  you  answer  my 
prayer,  I  will  offer  you  a  memorial,  which  will  far  exceed  anything, 
that  I  see  offered  to  you  here,"  I  knelt  down  by  the  railing,  and 
implored  Saint  Genevieve  to  intercede  for  me,  that  I  might  be  pre- 
sented at  court,  that  I  might  have  plenty  of  money,  and  that  the  first 
men  of  the  empire  might  be  at  my  feet. 

I  then  arose,  and  went  and  knelt  down  by  the  priest,  and  asked 
him  to  give  me  his  blessing.  He  arose  and  blessed  me.  I  then 
asked  him,  why  those  candles  were  burning  there.  He  told  me  their 
meaning,  and  expressed  his  surprise,  that  I  was  not  a  Catholic.  Said 
he  :  "  Did  I  not  see  you  this  moment  invoking  St.  Genevieve  ? " 
Yes,"  I  replied  :  "  1  asked  her  for  three  things  j  I  just  want  to  see 


.a 


LITERATURE,   LANGUOR  AND   LEARNING. 


95 


;r  the  obscurity, 

i,  I  thought  what 

II  immortal.     All 

companions,  who 

view  of  the  fres- 

then  continued 
even  remarking, 
before  a  railing, 
ly  surprise,  I  was 
renevi^ve,  patron 
)laced  an  antique 
.  shepherdess.  I 
r,  and  then  at  an 
ictuary,  saying  his 
;h  the  faithful  had 
intercession  they 

was  paid  to  this 
were  hung  about 
2  kneeling  around 
Is,  were  earnestly 
a  slight  reflection 
cresting,  I  looked 
claimed  : 

you  answer  my 
exceed  anything, 
y  the  railing,  and 
t  I  might  be  pre- 
and  that  the  hrst 

priest,  and  asked 
ssed  me.  I  then 
He  told  me  their 
a  Catholic.  Said 
St.  Genevieve  ?  " 
;  just  want  to  see 


m 


"I 

■.-■■* 

-4 


if  there  is  anything  in  iV  «  But,  my  child,"  he  continued,  "  why  did 
you  ask  my  blessing  ?  "  Said  I  :  "  I  hardly  know  myself ;  but  1  felt, 
that  it  would  bring  me  good  luck."  He  continued:  "You  are  a 
Protestant  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said  I,  "inasmuch  as  I  protest  against  all  re- 
ligions ;  but  I  am  what  you  would  call  an  infidel ;  for  1  belong  to  the 
^school  of  Voltaire,  and  it  was  to  visit  his  tomb,  that  I  came  here  to- 
day." He  sadly  and  faintly  smiled,  after  I  had  finished  speaking,  and 
was  going  to  resume  his  seat.  But,  as  I  lingered  near  the  altir, — 
for  I  was  strangely  drawn  to  it,— he  came  to  me  again,  and  said  to 
me :  "  You  have  a  Spanish  accent,  my  child  ;  but  I  never  knew,  that 
Spain  ever  educated  one  of  her  daughters  to  be  an  infidel."  "  I  am 
an  American  ;  "  I  answered.  He  smiled,  nodded  his  head,  and  mak- 
ing a  Frenchman's  movement  with  his  hands,  uttered  :  "  £/i  l>kn  ;  " 
which  meant,  that  it  was  all  clear  to  iiim  then. 

I  took  apartments  in  the  Champs  Elysees ;  where  I  settled  at  once, 
as  though  I  were  to  make  Paris  my  home  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I 
had  not  been  there  a  week,  before  I  engaged  two  experienced  teach- 
ers, and  began  a  thorough  course  of  Italian  and  French  literature. 

My  Italian  teacher  taught  me  how  to  paint  my  eyes,  so  as  to  give 
theui  that  dreamy  languor,  so  much  admired  in  the  ladies  of  the 
East.  She  was  an  adept  in  the  art,  and  she  pronounced  me  an  apt 
scholar ;  for,  in  two  short  lessons,  I  profited  so  well,  that  she  de- 
clared, the  coloring  was  so  well  blended  with  my  complexion,  that 
no  one  could  suspect,  that  it  was  not  natural. 

After  four  months'  study,  I  delivered  my  letters  of  introduction.  I 
was  received  most  cordially,  and  was  invited  to  receptions  and 
entertainments.  As  I  had  never  dissipated,  I  appeared  much 
younger,  than  most  ladies  of  my  age  :  and  I  pretended  to  be  still 
younger. 

I  had  always  been  fond  of  studying  encyclopa;dias,  and  I  had  ac- 
quired a  large  amount  of  superficial  knowledge,  which  I  had  tact 
enough  to  display  to  the  best  advantage.  I  soon  acquired  a  reputa- 
tion for  learning.  I  had  a  smattering  of  many  things,  but  the  knowl- 
edge of  nothing ;  and  my  tact  consisted  in  never  going  so  far,  as  to 
let  others  discover,  how  little  I  knew.  I  have  often  conversed  with 
persons  on  subjects  1  knew  nothing  about,  and  on  which  they  in- 
structed me  at  every  word  ;  yet,  I  am  sure,  that  1  have  left  them  under 
the  impression,  that  I  knew  more  about  the  subject,  than  they  did 
themselves.     In  fine,  I  soon  acquired  the  enviable  reputation  of  try- 


I  AM   INTRODUCED. 


ing  to  conceal  my  knowledge ;  whereas,  the  truth  was,  I  only  suc- 
ceeded in  disgiiisii.,   my  ignorance. 

It  is  needless  to  s,^  ,  that  1  was  at  once  detested  by  the  women, 
and  adored  by  the  men.  The  ladies,  when  conversing  with  me, 
would  invariably  turn  the  conversation  on  myself.  They  would  ask 
me,  who  were  my  relations,  and  whom  I  knew  in  America.  As  for 
my  relations,  I  knocked  them  all  at  once  on  the  head,  by  declaring, 
that  they  were  all  dead  ;  and  1  gave  them  a  list  of  the  acquaintances 
I  had  made  in  Washington,  who  were  among  the  best  families  at 
home.  The  only  account  I  would  give  of  myself  was,  that  I  de- 
scended from  the  family  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  ;  that  my  husband  had 
been  United  States  consul ;  that  I  had  always  had,  even  as  a  child,  a 
morbid  distaste  for  society  ; — which  I  could  say  truly,  when  I  thought 
of  my  life  in  the  Highlands  of  Dutchess  ; — that  I  had  always  preferred 
solitude  and  study ;  and  that  even  now  I  only  went  into  society,  at 
the  earnest  solicitations  of  my- friends,  and  not  that  it  gave  me  the 
slightest  gratification. 

1  chanced  to  meet  several  gentlemen,  who  had  known  my  husband 
on  the  Chilian  coast,  and  who  had  been  particularly  fond  of  him  for 
his  melancholy  and  laconic  humor,  which  made  him  one  of  the  most 
pleasant  convives  in  the  Avorld.  These  gentlemen  introduced  me  to 
their  acijuaintances,  as  the  wife  of  their  bosom  friend .  My  four  months' 
solitude,  and  my  demeanor,  verified  my  words  in  regard  to  my  indif- 
ference to  the  attention  of  others.  I  never  sought  any  one's  acquaint- 
ance ;  I  made  no  advances,  and  made  everybody  come  to  me  fust. 

In  a  few  weeks,  I  was  obliged  to  have  a  reception-day,  as  1  found, 
that  I  was  constantly  interrui)ted  by  callers.  But  there  were  some 
few  of  my  newly  made  friends,  whom  I  would  permit  to  call  on  nic 
at  api)ointed  hours  during  the  day  ;  which  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
conversing  with  them.  These  were  chietly  idlers,  or,  as  the  French 
call  them,  "  Zt'j  Iniiti/es ;"  who  sought  me,  at  that  time,  only  bo- 
cause  my  apartment  fiiced  on  the  Chanq)s  Klysees  ;  and  it  gave  them 
a  chance  to  kill  time,  by  looking  at  the  horses  and  equipages,  as 
they  passed  to  and  from  the  liois  de  Boulogne. 

Lcs  Imitilcs  Amcricaius  in  Paris  are  not  usually  men  of  sentiment, 
but  arc  men  of  leisure,  whose  ])rinci])al  occupation,  during  the  day, 
consists  in  making  calls,  and  in  lounging  about  the  reading  rooms  of 
the  American  banking-houses.  Their  evenings  are  usually  passed 
in  gambling  in  their  bedrooms,  or  promenading  in  the  disreputable 


■■•i 


~& 


I   UTILIZE   "  LES   INUTILES. 


97 


was,  I  only  suc- 

d  by  the  women, 
versing  with  nie, 

They  would  ask 
America.  As  for 
;ad,  by  declaring, 
he  acquaintances 

best  families  at 
f  was,  that  I  de- 
;  my  husband  had 
even  as  a  child ^  a 
y,  when  I  thought 
:1  always  preferred 
It  into  society,  at 
t  it  gave  me  the 

nown  my  husband 
rly  fond  of  him  for 
m  one  of  the  most 
introduced  me  to 
.    My  four  months' 
•egard  to  my  indif- 
my  one's  acquaint- 
ome  to  me  first. 
:)n-day,  as  1  found, 
,t  there  were  some 
>rmit  to  call  on  me 
an  opportunity  of 
or,  as  the   French 
that  time,  only  be- 
;  and  it  gave  them 
and  e(iuipages,  as 

r  men  of  sentiment, 
in,  during  the  day, 
e  reading  rooms  of 
are  usually  passed 
in  the  disreputable 


gardens  of  the  metropolis.  They  are  the  repositories  of  all  the 
gossip,  that  floats  among  the  American  colony  in  Paris.  I  cultivated 
a  few  of  the  species,  and  reversed  their  calling  by  making  them  ex- 
tremely useful:  for  they  brought  me  a  daily  bulletin  of  all  they 
heard,  either  good  or  bad,  in  regard  to  myself ;  and  all,  that  their  in- 
formation cost  me,  was  a  few  French  biscuits  and  a  bottle  of  wine. 

IJy  what  I  learned  from  '' Les  Inutiles^  I  saw,  that  my  position 
could  only  he  maintained  by  a  continual  struggle.  I  heard  with  re- 
gret, that  the  envious  had  succeeded  in  prejudicing  our  American 
Minister,  Mr.  Dayton,  against  me ;  and  that  he  had  said,  that  he 
should  not  present  me  at  court.  I  heard  also,  that  the  ladies,  who 
frequented  my  receptions,  were  my  bitterest  enemies;  and  their 
caustic  remarks  and  broad  insinuations  would  be  repeated  to  me, 
just  as  they  had  fallen  from  their  lips.  I  was  a  mystery,  they 
thought ;  and  there  must  be  something  wrong,  that  so  young  a  lady 
should  be  travelling  alone,  without  any  protection.  Even  such  ac- 
complishments, as  I  had,  they  turned  against  me,  by  saying,  that  it 
was  evident,  that  I  had  only  been  educated,  in  order  to  attract  and 
inveigle  the  opposite  sex,  with  no  good  design,  as  was  clear  to  every 
woman,  wlio  had  laid  eyes  on  me. 

I  was  kept  so  well  informed  of  everybody's  sentiments  towards  me, 
that  I  was  always  prepared  to  manage  my  adversaries,  whenever  I 
came  in  contact  with  them.  But,  instead  of  using  their  own  weapons, 
which  my  position  then  was  too  weak  to  justify,  I  tried  to  conquer 
them,  by  treating  those  with  the  most  civility,  whom  I  had  die  most 
reason  to  hate.  1  avoided  giving  them  a  char.ce  to  suspect,  that  I 
knew  what  their  sentiments  were  in  regard  to  me ;  and  those,  whom 
I  had  the  most  reason  to  distrust,  I  would  treat  apparently  with  the 
greatest  confidence  ;  and  every  one  of  my  words  would  be  repeated 
to  me,  with  additional  remarks,  by  Les  Jnutiles. 

But  I  soon  got  tired  of  the  strife ;  for  it  gave  me  little  or  no  satis- 
faction, even  after  1  liad  succeeded  in  weakening  my  enemies.  I  saw, 
in  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  that  I  was  loosing  ground  ;  and  I  began  to 
lose  courage,  and  was  ready  to  give  up  the  contest  and  leave  Paris.  I 
could  go  to  Florence,  where  1  had  excellent  letters  to  old  residents,  and 
there  begin  anew.  1  fell  into  my  old  habit,  and  went  to  consulting  the 
fortune-tellers,  who  all  predicted  for  me  a  bright  future,  a  splendid 
marriage,  and  great  worldly  success. 

One  day  1  found  Mr.  Pennington,  Secretary  of  the  American  Le- 


0  FEMININE  DIPLOMACY. 

gation,  waiting  for  me.  He  had  come  to  tell  me  that  the  first  ball  at 
the  Tuileries  would  take  place  on  the  6th  of  January,  and  that,  if  I 
wanted  to  be  presented  to  their  Majesties  1  must  make  my  application 
at  once.     "  1  know  too  much,"  1  said,  "  to  make  an  ajjplication  when 

1  am  sure  to  be  refused."     Then  I  told  Mr.  Pennington,  that   I   had 

learned  from  Mrs. ,  that  Mr.  Dayton  had  said,  that  he  would  not 

present  me  at  court.  "  The  old  vixen  !  "  exclaimed  Pennington ; 
"she  is  the  very  woman  who  came  to  the  legation  and  prejudiced 
Mr.  Dayton  against  you."  I  was  surprised  to  hear  this ;  for  1  thought 
her  the  only  true  lady  friend  I  had  in  Paris.  She  had  feigned  to  be 
exceedingly  sorry,  when  she  came  to  tell  me  what  Mr.  Dayton  had 
said  ;  and  she  was  always  inviting  me  to  her  house  to  dine,  and  always 
coming  to  my  receptions.  "  Well,"  said  I,  "  if  such  is  the  case,  1  ain 
disgusted  with  Paris,  and  I  shall  leave  at  once  for  Florence."  Pen- 
nington broke  out  into  an  ironical  laugh.    "Florence,"  said  he,  "is, 

of  all  places  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  the "  ;  and  here,  I  am  sorry 

to  say,  historical  accuracy  will  not  permit  me  to  deny,  that  he  used, 
in  the  superlative  degree,  a  participial  adjective  decidedly  and  dede- 
corously  more  forcible,  than  polite,  to  express  his  utter  condemnation  ; 
in  fact  it  was  (luite  Dantesiiue.  "  Why,  Paris  is  a  heaven  to  it ; "  ho 
continued  ;  "  here  people  only  know  how  much  money  a  man  has  in  the 
bank ;  but  in  Florence  they  will  tell  you  how  much  you  have  in  your 
pocket.  All  tiiat  people  do  there  is  to  mind  one  another's  business. 
It  would  ruin  any  one,  who  has  a  good  name,  to  live  there  ;  and  [ 
wonder  what  chance  you  would  stand.  Why,"  said  he,  "  there  would 
not  be  a  hpiv  left  on  the  top  of  your  head  at  the  end  of  the  tirst  week.'' 
"  But,"  said  I,  "  my  head  feels  pretty  sore  now,  and  I  have  got  enough 
of  it  ;  I  give  it  up."  "  If  you  cannot  get  along  in  Paris,"  said  Pen- 
nington, "you  can  never  succeed  anywhere.  At  any  rate  Mrs.  Day- 
ton is  your  friend  ;  for  I  have  often  heard  her  speak  sympathizingly 
of  you.  She  knows,  that  it  is  nothing  but  envy,  that  has  turned,  the 
women  against  you.  Write  lier  a  note  ;  make  your  a[)plicalion  to 
her.  I  will  choose  a  good  time  to  give  it  to  her.  If  s/ie  a^ka  her  hus- 
band to  present  you,  he  will  do  it.  "Kut,"  said  I,  "why  do  >ou  not 
ask  it  for  me  ?  You  ought  to  have  a  good  deal  of  intluence,  being 
Secretary  of  Legation,  and  being  with  them  most  of  the  time."  "  Mow 
fooHshly  you  talk  !  "  said  he  ;  "  they  all  know  just  what  kind  of  a  man 
I  am.  I  will  run  you  down  when  I  present  the  note.  Then  Mrs. 
payton  will  be  sure  to  stand  up  for  you.     Yuu  ou^ht  to  know,  that 


I 


M 


1     it 
III; 

it'  ' 
'  li   ■ 


CAPTURE  OF   A   DIPLOMAT. 


99 


It  the  first  ball  at 
ry,  and  that,  if  I 

e  iny  application 
ipplication  wIkmi 
gton,  that  I  had 
that  he  would  not 
ned  Pennington ; 
n  and  prcjiuliccu 
lis  ;  for  1  thought 
lad  feii^ned   to  he 

Mr.  Dayton  had 
)  dine,  and  always 

is  the  case,  1  am 

Florence."     Pcn- 
ice,"  said  he,  "  is, 
1  here,  I  am  sorry 
iny,  that  he  used, 
cidedly  and  dedo- 
ter  condenniation ; 
heaven  to  it ;"  he 
ey  a  man  has  in  the 
1  you  have  in  your 
another's  business, 
live  there  ;  and  I 
d  he,  "  there  would 
;1  of  the  first  week.'' 
:l  I  have  got  enough 
1  I'aris,"  said  Pen- 
my  rate    Mrs.  Day- 
eak  sympathizingly 
lat  has  turneil,  the 
our  application  to 
If  she  asks  her  hus- 
,  "why  do  >ou  not 
of  inlluence,  being 
f the  time."    "How 
,vhat  kind  of  a  man 

note.     Then  Mrs. 
ught  to  know,  that 


people  of  sense  are  susjjicious  of  a  woman,  whom  all  the  men  are 
pi'aising  and  all  the  women  abusing." 

1  wrote  the  note  ;  and  the  next  day  I  received  a  letter  from  the  lega- 
tion, asking  would  I  like  to  be  presented  at  court  on  the  occasion  of 
the  fust  ball,  which  would  take  place  on  the  6th.  I  replied  in  the 
aflirnuitive,  and,  a  few  days  later,  I  recei\'ed  a  letter,  saying,  that  my 
application  had  been  granted. 

I  made  a  most  extravagant  outlay  on  my  toilet.  I  wore  a  pearl 
necklace,  a  set  of  diamonds,  and  a  white  silk  dress  puffed  with  tulle. 
Pennington  introduced  me  to  a  courtier,  who  escorted  me  into 
the  supper-room,  where  1  supped  at  the  first  table,  near  to  their 
?lajesties,  and  with  the  Diplomatic  Corps.  Mr.  Dayton  saw  me. 
lie  came  up  and  spoke  to  me.  and  complimented  me  for  being  so 
handsomely  dressed,  saying  that  he  was  glad  to  see  America  so  well 
represented.  He  took  his  place  beside  me,  and  remained  by  me  during 
the  time  we  were  in  the  supper-room,  which  must  have  been  three- 
([uarters  of  an  hour.  I  felt  that  my  opportunity  had  come  to  undo 
the  mischief,  that  my  rivals  had  done  me  ;  and  I  was  determined  to 
profit  by  it. 

It  was  easy  to  read  Mr.  l^ayton's  character,  and  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  mistake  it ;  for  his  frank,  high-toned,  generous  nature  was 
stamped  on  all  his  features. 

For  a  moment  I  was  perplexed ;  I  did  not  know  what  art  to  use  in 
order  to  win  him  and  to  make  him  my  friend.  I  knew,  that  my  future 
in  France  depended  on  being  sustained  and  protec^^ed  by  the  Day- 
tons.  I  finally  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  the  bei  art  to  use  with 
such  a  man,  was  to  use  no  art  at  all.  So  I  threw  off  those  allure- 
ments and  that  air  of  languid  indifference,  which  had  never  failed  to 
captivate  those,  who  were  as  deeply  steeped  in  dissimulation  as  my- 
self; and  I  behaved  towards  hi.n  like  a  plain,  honest,  frank,  out- 
spoken woman.  This  was  a  hard  part  for  me  to  play  ;  for  the 
contrary  long  habit  '^ad  almost  become  to  me  a  second  nature.  I 
couunenced  by  attacking  his  gallantry,  and  gave  him  to  understand, 
tliat  I  knew,  that  I  was  not  indebted  to  him  for  the  pleasure  of  su})- 
ping  that  evening  at  their  Majesties'  table.  I  then  tried  to  enlist  his 
sympatlHcs  by  exposing  to  him  my  real  position,  and  telling  how 
gratefid  I  felt  towards  Mrs.  Daylon  j  and  I  appealed  to  his  generosity 
by  begging  him  not  to  let  the  envious  so  poison  him  against  me,  that 
he  himself  should  seek  to  break  that  slender  support,  which  I  had  in 


lOO 


ANCESTRY, 


*l     !l 


the  protection  of  his  wife.  In  an  instant  I  saw,  that  I  had  conquered ; 
for  he  reproached  himself  at  once  for  his  prejudices,  which  he  ac- 
knowledged to  me.  "  I  give  them  all  up,"  he  made  haste  to  say, 
"  for  I  never  was  so  mistaken  in  any  one  in  my  life.  Why,  you  are 
nothing  but  a  child.  I  have  often  watched  you,  and  have  tried  to 
study  you ;  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  you  were  a  confirmed 
diplomat."  "And  so  I  am,"  I  replied,  "and  1  have  just  given  you 
a  good  proof  of  it,  by  throwing  all  diplomacy  aside,  the  moment  I 
came  into  the  presence  of  my  master."  He  smiled,  and  slightly  in- 
clined his  head,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment  ;  and  he 
assured  me,  when  we  parted  that  evening,  that  I  could  count  on  his 
protection,  whenever  it  would  be  in  his  power  to  serve  me. 

The  Americans  received  me  better  after  my  presentation  at  court ; 
for  there  was  still  a  doubt,  whether  I  might  not  rise  after  all. 

Among  my  American  actuiaintances  was  a  family,  whose  son  had 

married  the  daughter  of  the  Count  of ,  who  was  brother  of  the 

Duchess  of  .     I  was  introduced  to  this  family,  and,  for  a  short 

time,  was  a  general  favorite.  They  invited  me  to  their  dinners,  and 
parties ;  and  introduced  me  to  their  friends.  IJut,  in  a  short  while, 
it  was  only  a  repetition  of  what  had  occurred  among  the  Americans. 
I  gave  umbrage  to  the  women.  They  felt,  that  I  took  a  position, 
that  no  lady  had  a  right  to  aspire  to,  unless  she  could  trace  her 
genealogy  back  to  Charlemagne  or  one  of  his  paladins  ;  and  thoy 
tried  to  disembarrass  themselves  of  me,  by  not  inviting  me  to  their 
houses,  nor  coming  to  my  receptions.  But  to  their  great  chagrin, 
we  were  constantly  meeting  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  those,  to  whom 
they  had  introduced  me.  One  was  that  of  Madame  O'Gorman,  and 
another  that  of  Mrs.  Admiral  Ross. 

I  was  passing  one  evening  alone  with  Mrs.  Ross,  at  her  house  ; 
when,  in  a  most  adroit  and  lady-like  way,  she  very  delicately  re- 
marked, that  the  great  affection  she  had  for  me,  gave  her  a  strong 
desire  to  know  all  about  me ;  as,  from  my  manners  and  education,  it 
was  evident  to  all,  that  I  had  not  descended  from  anything  vulgar. 
I  felt,  that  she  had  put  the  question  very  sweetly  ;  yet,  I  had  become 
chafed  by  the  treatment  I  had  received  from  her  noble  French  friends, 
with  the  ducal  connection  ;  and  1  had  got  tired  of  hearing  ancestry 
discussed  from  morning  till  night ;  especially  for  the  reason,  that  I 
did  not  care  to  resuscitate  my  own. 

I  answered  her,  laughingly  :  "  I  see  that  it  is  ail  over  with  me 


AN  ENGLISH   HEART. 


lOI 


had  conquered ; 
;s,  which  he  at- 
de  haste  to  say, 
AVhy,  you  are 
d  have  tried  to 
vere  a  confiriued 
2  just  given  you 
,  the  moment  I 
and  sHghtly  in- 
hment  ;  and  he 
dd  count  on  his 
rve  me. 

Mitation  at  court ; 
after  all. 

•,  whose  son  had 
s  brother  of  the 
,  and,  for  a  short 
heir  dinners,  and 
in  a  short  while, 
g  the  Americans. 
I  took  a  position, 
:  could  trace  her 
ladins  ;  and  they 
k'iting  me  to  their 
iir  great  chagrin, 
f  those,  to  whom 
e  O' Gorman,  and 


here,  and  that  you  are  going  to  court-martial  me,  so  as  to  go  over  to 
the  enemy."  She  was  unprepared  for  any  such  outburst  on  my  part. 
She  had  supposed,  that  1  would  not  be  quick  enough  to  detect  her 
object.  She  was  so  embarrassed,  that  she  could  not  reply,  but 
blushed  crimson.  I  took  pity  on  her,  and  continued  :  "  My  relatives 
are  all  dead  ;  at  least,  they  are  all  dead  to  inc.  Requiescant  in  pace  ; 
and  if  their  resurrection  depended  on  me,  I  am  afraid,  that  they 
would  be  i^ermitted  to  continue,  for  many  a  year,  to  enjoy  their 
present  shady  condition.  I  was  fondled  by  them  one  day  as  a  pet, 
and  the  next  day  was  thrust  into  their  kitchen  like  a  Cinderella, 
liut  it  was  not  in  their  kitchen,  that  the  gallant  knight  Eckel  fell  in 
love  with  me  ;  for  I  had  already  wandered  from  it.  Now,  madam,  be 
satisfied ;  for  I  shall  tell  you  no  more.  lUit  if  I  should  judge  of  my- 
self by  what  I  know  of  my  kin,  I  could  swear  to  you,  madam,  that  the 
7vorst  blood  in  America  flows  through  my  veins.  So  now  give  me  my 
hat,  and  let  me  go."  At  that  I  advanced  towards  the  door  of  the 
antechamber. 

My  friend  burst  out  into  a  hearty  laugh,  sprang  after  me,  and 
caught  me,  before  I  reached  the  door.  She  kissed  me  on  both 
cheeks,  took  my  hand,  and  led  me  back  to  the  sofa,  saying  :  "  I  want 
to  be  jPur  friend.  Sit  down,  and  I  will  open  my  heart  to  you." 
She  told  m£  the  efforts,  that  others,  even  the  Americans,  had  made 
to  prevent  her  visiting  me.  But  henceforth,  she  said,  nothing  should 
separate  us.  "  1  give  you  my  heart,"  she  said  ;  "  and  in  fact  you 
have  had  my  symi)athies,  from  the  first  moment,  that  I  saw  you." 
And  in  tlie  enjoyment  of  her  friendship,  I  soon  learned  to  know  the 
priceless  value  of  a  true  English  heart. 


3S,  at  her  house  ; 
ery  delicately  re- 
gave  her  a  strong 
and  education,  it 
1  anything  vulgar, 
yet,  I  had  become 
le  French  friends, 
"  hearing  ancestry 
the  reason,  that  I 

all  over  with  me 


•-I 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MV  OCTOGENARIAN  BEAU. — A  NOBLE  IRISH  FAMILY  AND  AN  IRISH  M.P. 

About  this  time  I  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  Mr.  S- 


from  Boston.     One  night,  as  I   was  going  to  bed,  I  implored  God 
to  send  me  a  true  dream,  and  to  let  me  know,  if  I  was  ever  to  marry 

Mr.  S .     I  dreamed,  that  I  was  standing  in  a  garden,  and  that  I 

saw  a  gypsy  coming  towards  me.    I  went  up  to  her  and  asked  her  to 


K^ipnf ." 

i    ^   ill  '• 

■  i         1  ' 

.11       %      '      1     ; 

1  I' 


102 


MARRYING  A  TITLE. 


tell  my  forlunc.  She  instantly  unrolled  a  scroll,  which  she  held  in  lier 
hand,  and  on  it  was  written,  in  letters  of  gold  :    "  Yoii  ■Jdi/l  never 

marry  S ."    I  saw  it  plainly,  but  beneath  the  scroll  was  a  word. 

that  could  not  be  seen  so  distinctly,  for  it  seemed  to  float  in  a  mist ;  hut 
it  was  plain  enough  for  me  to  read  :  the  word  was  "  Laferiiere."  The 
gypsy  then  disappeared,  and  I  instantly  awoke.  Tiic  dream  was  just 
as  vivid  before  me,  as  anything  1  hatl  ever  seen  ;  yet  I  did  not  be- 
lieve it,  and  said  to  myself:   "Dreams  always  go  by  contraries." 

]}ut,  in  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  S and  I   had  a  (juarrel,  when  we  both 

confessed,  that  we  would  sooner  be  shot,  than  marry  each  otlior ; 
after  which  we  ])arted  the  best  of  friends. 

My  next  suitor  was  the  Count  de  V ,  an  octogenarian,  wlio 

pretended  to  be  much  younger.  I  made  his  accjuaintance  at  an 
evening  party  given  by  the  Countess  de  Loyaute.  Everybody  knew, 
that  I  wanted  to  marry  a  title  ;  and  he  offered  ine  his  in  exchange 
for  my  fortune,  which  he  proi)osed  to  divide  with  his  daughter  the 

Countess  de  F .     I  then  cast  a  look  over  my  money  affairs  ;  and 

I  saw,  that  I  must  either  retrench  my  expenses,  or  give  uj)  the  idi'a 
of  marrying  a  count.  My  friends  in  America  were  still  faithful  to 
me  ;  and  I  was  constantly  drawing  interests  on  contracts,  wherein  it 
was  understood,  that,  so  long  as  certain  men  should  give  nW  a  per- 
centage, they  would  have  the  preference, — justly  or  not. 

One  evening  Dr.  Johnson  called  on  me,  and  asked  me,  why  I  did  not 
try  to  marry  a  title.  I  told  him,  that,  for  the  present,  tiie  only  man  nf 
title,  who  presented  himself,  was  an  octogenarian,  and  that  to  take 
him  would  seem  like  being  led  to  the  altar  by  Saturn  himself  "  So 
much  the  better,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  the  older  he  is  the  sooner  he 
will  die ;  and  then  you  will  be  Madame  la  Comtesse,  without  any 
encumbrances."  He  talked  to  me  in  this  way  for  about  an  hour ; 
until  he  actually  persuaded  me,  that  1  ought  to  jumj)  at  the  chance. 

I  at  once  conferred  with  Mr.  Dayton,  who  said  all  he  could  to  rea- 
son me  out  of  it.  But  I  became  inexorable  ;  for  my  head  was  full 
of  all  the  advantages,  that  Dr.  Johnson  had  persuaded  me,  Avould  ac- 
crue to  me,  the  moment  1  would  be  ushered  into  a  drawing-room  as 
Madame  la  Comtesse.  Mr,  Dayton  then  told  me  of  the  danger  of 
marrying  a  Frenchman,  on  account  of  the  civil  law  in  regard  to  mar- 
riage ;  that  it  was  a  difficult  thing  for  an  American  to  be  legally  mar- 
ried in  France,  as  the  most  necessary  article  was  a  certificate  of  birth, 
which  not  one  American  out  of  a  hundred  could  produce,  as  required 


THE  DUKE  DE   MORNY. 


103 


slic  held  in  her 
You  will  never 
roll  was  a  word. 
)at  in  a  mist ;  hut 
afeniurc."  'Hie 
,'  dream  was  just 
ct  I  did  not  hc- 
)  l)y  contraries." 
1,  when  wc  both 
ury   each  other; 

:togenarian,  who 
iiaintance  at  an 
•A'er)body  knew, 

his  in  exchange 
his  daughter  the 
.)ney  affairs  ;  and 
[^ive  up  the  idea 
e  still  faithful  to 
itracts,  wherein  it 
:1  give  n™  a  per- 
not. 

me,  why  I  ditl  not 
,  the  only  man  "f 
and  that  to  take 
in  himself  "  So 
is  the  sooner  he 
esse,  without  any 

about  an  hour ; 
p  at  the  chance. 
11  he  could  to  rea- 
my  head  was  full 
led  me,  would  ac- 
drawing-room  as 
of  the  danger  of 
in  regard  to  mar- 
to  be  legally  mar- 
:ertificate  of  birth, 
oducc,  as  required 


~^% 


by  French  law.  He  might  marry  me,  he  said,  to  a  Frenchman  at  the 
I,egation,  and  I  might  be  married  again  at  the  church  ;  yet  in  I'Vance 
my  marriage  would  not  be  considered  legal,  and  my  right  to  the  title 
of  Countess  could  be  disputed  after  my  husband's  death,  by  any  one, 
whose  interest  it  might  be  to  lay  claim  to  it.  As  I  had  suffered  all 
my  life  from  the  fact,  that  it  had  not  been  proved,  that  my  ])arents 
were  legally  married,  notwithstanding  their  allegations,  that  they  were 
married, — and  it  is  my  firm  belief,  that  they  were ;  I  was  determined 
not  to  run  any  risk  this  time,  but  to  be  perfectly  sure  of  rny  success 
before  advancing  any  farther.  So  I  bade  society  a  short  farewell, 
and  went  to  studying  le  code  Napoleon — the  civil  law  of  France.  I 
made  the  Count  bring  me  all  his  papers,  so  as  to  satisfy  myself  of  the 
genuineness  of  his  title. 

In  the  midst  of  this  laborious  occupation,  Mr.  Dayton  introduced 
to  me  the  Duke  de  Morny.  The  Duke  called  on  me  one  day,  and 
was  exceedingly  amused  to  see  a  lady's  boudoir  turned  into  a  law- 
office.  He  i)roposed  to  relieve  nie  of  a  task,  which  my  instinct 
of  self-preservation  against  7"rench  chicanery  had  imposed  upon 
me ;  and  took  home  with  him  the  two  or  three  hundred  papers 
of  the  ('ount,  which  must  have  proved  his  ancestry  as  far  back 
as  Kinglt'epin. 

In  a  few  days  the  Duke  brought  me  an  answer,  that  my  certificate 
of  birth  was  the  most  important  paper,  and  that  I  must  have  also 
])apers  to  prove  the  death  of  my  parents,  besides  my  marriage  certifi- 
cate and  the  certificate  of  my  husband's  death,  signed  by  the  French 
consul  in  New  York.  I  sent  at  once  to  America,  and  i)rocured  the 
two  last.  But  to  produce  my  certificate  of  birth,  would  be  impossi- 
ble. To  obtain  a  certificate  of  the  death  of  my  father,  would  be  pos- 
sible ;  but  I  would  certainly  never  apply  to  Blackwell's  Island  for 
the  certificate  of  death  of  my  mother. 

']'he  Duke  de  Morny  confided  to  me  his  own  history,  which  had  been 
full  of  vicissitudes.  As  he  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  Queen  Hortense, 
and  half-brother  to  the  Fmi)eror,  he  had  passed  a  part  of  his  life  in  a 
])alace,  and  another  part  in  misery.  I  saw,  that  illegitimacy  in  his 
eyes  was  no  disgrace  ;  so  I  told  him  how  I  had  been  done  out  of  my 
birlliright,  justly  or  not,  there  would  ever  be  a  doubt;  but  that  I  had 
smarted  from  it  just  as  much,  as  though  I  were  really  an  illegitimate 
child.  My  story  interested  the  Duke,  and  he  promised  to  do  all  in 
his  power  to  aid  me,  and  he  was  sure  of  success.     As  soon  as  he  be- 


r  r:.  ^ 


104 


I   PROVE  THAT   I   WAS   BORN. 


came  thoroughly  informed,  he  called  on  me  again,  and  told  me,  that 
there  was  a  law  in  France,  which  made  i)rovision  for  cases,  where 
foreigners  could  not  procure  their  certificate  of  birth.  I  would  have 
to  go  before  a  magistrate,  and  make  a  declaration,  that  1  was  the 
daughter  of  such  and  such  persons  ;  I  must  give  my  mother's  maiilcii 
name, — "  \Vhich,"  said  I,  "I  will  never  do;"  (I  had  not  confided  it 
even  to  him).  Afy  declaration  must  be  signed  by  seven  witnesses, 
and  this  paper  would  answer  the  purpose  of  a  certificate  of  birth. 

I  secured  seven  witnesses;  among  whom  were  four  Americans: 
Mr.  Dayton,  Mr.  John  Monroe,  Mr.  Alcander  Hutchinson,  and  Mr. 
Holchkiss  ;  and  we  all  met  at  the  court-room  of  a  justice  of  the 
peace.  The  witnesses  should  have  declared  their  own  knowledge  of 
t'l  alleged  facts  ;  but  on  account  of  the  powerful  influence,  that  was 
aiding  me,  they  were  permitted  to  confine  themselves  to  declaring 
their  belief  in  the  truth  of  my  statement ;  as  this  was  all  that  they 
could  do  conscientiously.  So  the  whole  burden  was  thrown  on  my 
conscience.  I  quieted  my  scruples  in  this  way.  I  gave  the  name 
of  my  father  ;  and,  as  my  mother  had  come  from  Montreal,  which  is 
a  cit)-^,  and  ville  is  the  French  for  city,  I  gave  my  mother's  first  name 
and  her  second  name  as  de  Ville  ;  which  in  English,  would  be  Maria 
of  the  City.  ^ 

When  I  explained  to  the  Duke,  how  I  had  gotten  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty, he  laughed  heartily,  and  said  :  "  What  is  your  religion,  that  you 
can  arrange  your  conscience  to  suit  such  an  emergency  ? "  I  was 
surprised,  that  he  should  even  suspect  mc  of  having  any  religion  at 
all ;  and  I  did  not  reply. — "  Do,"  said  he,  seriously,  "  tell  me,  what  is 
your  belief."  Said  I  :  "I  believe  in  Venus  and  Mars,  love  and  light." 
"I  am  a  convert  too  ;  "   said  he. 

The  next  day  he  brought  me  Renan's  Life  of  Jesvs.  We  read 
most  of  it  together.  I  will  never  forget  how  I  was  affected  by  read- 
ing the  last  chapter.  I  was  alone,  and  had  passed  the  whole  after- 
noon perusing  the  book.  I  had  been  reading  that  part,  where  it 
speaks  of  the  Saviour's  perfections  as  man,  and  of  his  divine  gener- 
osity in  being  willing  to  die  for  his  doctrine,  which  he  believed  would 
secure  the  happiness  of  mankind.  Renan  speaks  admiringly  of  sc 
much  magnanimity.  Then  he  spoke  of  his  delicate  organization,  and 
of  his  crucifixion.  I  closed  the  book,  burst  into  tears,  and  exclaimed  : 
"  What  a  i)ity,  that  he  is  not  God !  for  I  feel  like  falling  down  and 
worshipping  him."     It  was  the  first  time,  that  1  had  ever  shed  a  tear 


^ 

' 

i 

'  s 

over 

■  ■;< 

not  1 

read 

vincc 

the  j. 

work 

this 

onh 

the 

the 

mal< 

that 

age, 

frig 

or 

Beii 

pas; 


THE  LIFE  OF  JESUS, 


lOt, 


ind  told  me,  that 

for  cases,  wIkmc 

1,     I  woiilil  have 

n,  that  I   was  the 

mother's  inaiilen 

(1  not  confuled  it 

seven  witnesses, 

cate  of  birth. 

"our  Americans : 

chinson,  and  JVIr. 

a  justice  of  the 

\vn  knowledge  of 

irtuence,  that  was 

;lves   to  declaring 

was  all   that  they 

vas  thrown  on  my 

I  gave  the  name 

Tontreal,  wiiich  is 

lothcr's  first  name 

1,  would  be  Maria 

3n  out  of  the  diffi- 
•  religion,  that  you 
urgency  ?"  I  was 
ng  any  religion  at 
,  "  tell  mc,  what  is 
rs,  love  and  fight." 

f  Ji'svs.  We  read 
5  affected  by  read- 
id  the  whole  after- 
hat  part,  where  it 
)f  his  divine  gencr- 
he  believed  would 
I  admiringly  of  sc 
I  organization,  and 
rs,  and  exclaimed  : 
;  falling  down  and 
,d  ever  shed  a  tear 


1 


over  our  Lord's  sufferings.  I  felt,  that  he  must  be  God  ;  but  I  did 
not  want  to  believe  it ;  and  I  at  once  set  diligently  to  work  to  re- 
read those  passages  in  Jean  Jacques,  which  had  so  thoroughly  con- 
vinced me  of  the  contrary  years  before.  But  1  had  to  fight  against 
the  grace,  that  was  given  me  at  the  moment  that  I  finished  Renan's 
work. 

There  was  something  so  beautiful  in  the  description  of  the  Man- 
Clod,  even  as  portrayed  by  the  pen  of  an  unbeliever,  that  I  could  not 
divest  myself  of  the  feeling,  that  he  must  have  been  divine,  as  no  mere 
man  could  ever  have  been  like  that  man. 

Mr.  Dayton  regretted  having  introduced  me  to  De  Morny,  and  was 
always  warning  me  to  beware  of  him.  The  Duke  knew  it,  Mr. 
Da)  ton  once  said  to  him,  that  he  was  afraid  he  had  thrown  the  lamb 
into  the  lion's  arms.  The  Duke  answered  :  "  Which  of  us  is  the 
lamb  ?  "  The  moment  I  made  the  Duke*s  acquaintance,  I  scarcely 
needed  any  longer  the  influence  even  of  the  American  minister  ;  for, 
through  the  Duke,  I  could  get  invitations  everywhere,  even  to  "  Ics 
pdits  bals"  of  the  P'.mpress ;  a  favor,  which  Mr.  Dayton  could  not 
have  obtained  for  his  most  intimate  friends. 

The  Duke  also  sent  me  boxes  for  the  opera  and  theatres.  In  fact 
I  had  everything  my  own  way,  and  was  enjoying  life  to  my  heart's 
content. 

The  Count  de  ^'^ had  introduced  me  to  all  his  friends  ;  but  the 

inoinent  I  became  intimate  with  them,  they  advised  me  not  to  marry 
him,  for  it  was  evident  that  I  would  be  most  miserable,  if  I  did.  He 
was  already  so  jealous  of  me,  that  he  endeavored  to  control  my  re- 
lations with  others.  This  I  would  not  allow  ;  but  he  threatened  to 
enforce  his  will  in  the  matter  the  moment  I  should  be  his  wife.  All 
this  did  not  decide  me  to  give  up  the  idea  of  marrying  him.  It  was 
only,  when  the  Duke,  on  bringing  me  a  report  of  the  genuineness  of 
the  title,  told  me  that  his  secretary  had  discovered,  in  looking  ovei 
the  genealogy  of  the  family,  that  for  the  five  last  generations,  all  the 
male  ancestors  had  lived  nearly  a  century,  and  when  he  remarked, 
that  there  was  a  prospect  of  the  present  Count  outrivalling  them  all  in 
age,  from  his  present  hale  and  hearty  appearance, — that  I  became 
frightened  and  dared  not  run  the  risk  ;  for  I  had  only  counted  on  one 
or  two  years  at  most.  I  had  done  everything  to  attach  him  to  me. 
]>eing  fond  of  literature,  as  he  was  gifted  and  talented,  we  used  to 
pass  whole  days  together,  while  he  instructed  me.     It  is  one  of  the 


io6 


SYSTEMATIC   THEOLOGY. 


sinful  acts  of  my  life,  wliicli  1  now  regret  the  most,  that  I  embittered 

the  last  daj'S  of  the  Count  de  V .      He  died  two  years  afterwards  ; 

but  he  was  wretched  until  the  day  of  his  death,  on  account  of  the 
manner,  in  wliich  I  had  treated  him  ;  for  it  humbled  him  in  the  eyes 
of  all  his  friends,  to  whom  he  had  boasted  of  his  future  happiness. 

J}ut  1  forgot  him  the  moment  he  was  out  of  my  sight.  Yet,  with  a 
*'  systematic  theology  "  of  my  own,  I  looked  upon  our  actiuaintance, 
as  providential;  for  it  had  incited  me  to  obtain  a  certificate  of  birth, 
whicii  might  be  of  great  service  to  me  in  the  future. 

I  felt,  that  I  owed  all  my  success  to  (lod ;  and  I  used  to  thank 
Him  for  everything  I  received.  I  believed,  that  He  showered  favors 
upon  me,  to  remunerate  me  for  the  injustice  He  had  done  me  in  my 
youth.  I  did  not  believe,  that  He  would  hold  me  responsible  for  my 
sins  ;  as  I  was  sure,  that  if  I  ceased  for  one  day  to  be  a  rogue,  that 
day  I  would  be  lost. 

As  soon  as  I  had  secured  friends  among  the  best  families  in  Paris, 
I  at  once  swept  my  rooms  of  "  Ivs  I/iutii  "'  This  created  for  me  a 
new  host  of  enemies ;  for  they  wished  to  make  use  of  me  to  extend 
the  list  of  their  ac([uaintances  ;  and  tliey  revenged  themselves  upon 
me  by  injuring  me  as  much  as  they  could.  I  had  weighed  all  that 
before  I  waged  war  with  them,  and  it  was  only  when  I  had  secured  a 
l^osition  too  strong  for  them  to  pull  me  down,  that  I  ventured  on 
such  a  battle. 

I  left  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  took  a  spacious  apartment  at  the 
Hotel  du  Louvre.     One  of  my  devoted  friends,  the  Count  (lermain 
de  Alonforton,  and  also  the  Duke  de   iMorny,  were  directors  of  tin* 
Credit  Mobilier;  which  company  owned  the  hotel.     Through  their  in 
fluence,  I  got  my  rooms  and  board  at  very  reducetl  prices. 

About  this  time,  the  O'Gorman  returned  from  Berlin,  where  he 
used  to  sj)end  the  greater  part  of  his  time.  His  return  was  hailed 
with  great  joy  by  his  friends  in  Paris.  I  was  invited  frecpiently  to 
their  house,  and  the  happiest  hours,  I  ever  passejl  in  society,  were 
spent  under  their  roof. 

They  were  of  a  noble  Irish  family,  highly  cultivated,  witty  and 
refined,  generous  and  charitable  to  the  last  degree,  never  doing 
another  a  wrong,  nor  suspecting  it  in  others.  They  kncu<  lo/io  tlicy 
ivcrc  themselves  ;  and  therefore  did,  as  they  pleased,  and  judged  for 
themselves,  whom  they  should  like,  and  whom  they  should  not. 
They  were  not  always  thrusting  their  nobility  in  your  face  ;  yet  you 


MY   FRIENDS. 


107 


at  I  cin])itterc(l 
us  afterwards ; 
account  of  the 
him  in  the  eyes 
e  haijpiness. 
It.  Yet,  witli  a 
r  accjuaintance, 
ificatc  of  binh, 

used  to  Ihaiik 

ihowered  favors 

done  nie  in  my 

ponsible  for  my 

be  a  rogue,  that 

amih'es  in  Paris, 
::reated  for  nie  a 
of  nie  to  extend 
Iieniselves  upon 
weighed  all  that 
I  had  secured  a 
t  I  ventured  on 

)artnient  at  the 
Count  (lennaii) 
directors  of  ihi' 
rh rough  their  in 
irices. 

{erlin,  where  he 
I  urn  was  liailed 
:d  freciuently  to 
in   society,  were 

ated,  witty  and 
e,  never  doing 
'  knew  loJto  they 
and  judged  for 
ey  should  not. 
r  face  ;  yet  you 


->5 


1 


could  sec  it  in  all  their  ways.  I  always  left  them  with  one  regret, 
and  tiiat  was,  that  there  were  not  more  like  them  in  the  world. 
A\'hcnever  I  went  to  the  O'CIornians,  I  was  obliged  to  throw  off  the 
mask  1  wore  in  the  world,  and  tried  to  behave  like  a  woman  of 
sense.  l"'or  in  a  house,  where  so  much  candor  and  honesty  reigned, 
deception  and  craft  were  ill  at  their  ease.  I  would  cast  them  off  at 
the  sill  of  their  door,  where  I  would  resume  them  again  to  make  a 
fool  of  the  beau,  who  escorted  me  home. 

It  was  at  Mme.  O'Ciorman's,  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
\\\\iii  liennessy  and  Julmond  de  l.esseps.  Ilennessy  was  then  an 
Irisii  memlier  of  the  ]5ritish  Parliament,  and  T.esseps  had  just  re- 
turned from  Lima,  where  he  was  the  French  consul-general.  Hen- 
nessy  was  full  of  intelligence  and  wit.  It  was  impossible  to  dine 
where  he  was  ;  for  he  would  keep  us  constantly  laughing  at  his  sallies 
and  repartee.  One  evening,  as  we  had  just  left  the  table,  I  asked 
him,  if  that  was  the  truth,  he  had  been  telling ;  for  he  had  nearly  af- 
firmed with  an  oath,  all  that  he  had  said.  "  The  truth ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  astonishment  :  "  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing,  as 
telling  the  truth  at  a  dinner-table.  Why  you  would  not  have  me  put 
all  the  people  to  sleep,  would  you  ?  "  "  15ut,"  said  I,  "  the  O'Ciornian 
has  just  told  me,  that  you  are  a  good  Roman  Catholic  ;  and  I  cannot 
believe,  that  you  are  sincere."  liennessy  became  serious,  and  assured 
me,  that  there  was  not  a  better  believing,  or  a  worse  practising  Catho- 
lic, in  all  Ireland,  than  himself.  "Then,"  said  I,  "how  dare  you  tell 
such  lies,  if  you  believe  you  are  going  to  be  punished  for  them." 
"  Ah,"  said  Hennessy,  "  that  is  all  right ;  for  I  have  two  sisters  at 
home,  who  are  constantly  praying  for  me ;  they  will  keep  me  out  of 
hell."  "Put,"  said  I,  "why  don't  you  pray  for  yourself?"  He  re- 
plied :  "  So  I  do  ;  for  I  pray  that  God  may  listen  to  them."  I  did 
not,  and  could  not  believe  him  confessing  against  himself.  As  I  pen 
these  lines,  the  thought  occurs  to  me,  that  the  day  may  come,  when 
1  shall  take  Hennessy's  place,  and  he  mine  ;  when  it  will  be  much 
easier  for  me  to  convince  him  and  the  world,  that  all  the  lies  I  ever 
told  were  truths,  than  to  make  them  believe  me  now,  when  1  speak 
the  truth. 


'■m 


i^ 


iio8 


MACHIAVELLIAN   SUCCESS. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

A   NIGHT   OF   HORROR. — ALONE    WITH    A    CORPSE. MR.    DAYTOM. 

On  tho  last  evening  in  November,  1864,  I  was  standing  in  my  bed- 
room before  a  wardrobe  mirror,  admiring  myself  and  contrasting  the 
past  with  the  present.  I  felt  happy  and  contented.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
then  realized  all  that  I  had  ever  hoped  for,  or  dreamed  of,  in  life.  I 
was  courted  and  flattered  by  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris  ;  and  my 
life  was  but  one  continual  round  of  gayety,  and  pleasure,  which  never 
gave  me  a  moment's  time  for  sadness  or  reflection.  In  the  midst  of  it 
all,  I  had  kept  my  h'eart  jierfectly  free.  I  enjoyed  everything,  yet  loved 
nothing,  but  what  I  called  success. 

I  had  made  the  "  Prince  "  of  Machiavelli  my  breviary,  and  I  never 
doubted  that  its  maxims  pointed  the  way  to  happiness ;  for  had  not 
the  following  of  them,  paved  my  way  to  success  ? 

I  was  contented  with  tlie  present,  and  felt,  that  the  future  was  secure  ; 
for  I  believed,  that  all  lay  in  my  own  hands  ;  that  I  had  only  to  con- 
tinue in  my  Machiavellian  course,  and  that  pleasure  and  enjoyment 
would  always  be  mine. 

I  had  just  finished  my  evening  toilet.  I  had  on  a  dress,  which  was 
fitted  to  my  form  with  artistic  nplicity ;  and  my  liair-dresser  had 
becomingly  arranged  my  hair  w  A\  bands  of  ribbon  in  the  Grecian 
style.  My  maid  had  gone  to  her  room,  and  I  was  alone.  I  was 
waiting  for  Mr.  Dayton,  whom  I  expected  to  come  and  pass  the 
evening  with  me ;  for  I  had  written  him  the  week  before,  that  1 
wished  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  importance.  It  was  in  regard  to 
an  American,  whom  I  will  designate,  as  Mr.  Ratscratch  ;  who  wanted 
to  be  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  He  had  promised  me  five 
thousand  dollars,  if  I  would  get  the  ribbon  for  him ;  and  I  wished  to 
get  Mr.  Dayton's  influence  in  the  matter. 

Mr.  Dayton  had  called  the  previous  evening  in  my  absence,  and 
liad  left  his  card,  with  word,  that  he  would  come  again  the  next 
evening.  As  I  felt  chilly,  I  threw  an  opera-cloak  over  my  shoulders, 
and  took  another  admiring  glance  at  myself  in  the  glass  ;  and  this  time 
I  exclaimed  half  aloud  :  "  Who  would  have  believed  it  ten  years 
ago?"    I  burst  out  laughing  at  the  thought  of  what  kind  of  faces  my 


ii! 


THE  AMERICAN   MINISTER. 


109 


IE. MR.    DAYTONT. 

Standing  in  my  bod- 

and  contrasting  (he 

1.     It  seemed  as  if  I 

eamed  of,  in  life.     I 

Id  of  Paris  ;  and  my 

leasure,  which  never 

In  the  midst  of  it 

everything,  yet  loved 

reviary,  and  I  never 
)piness  ;  for  had  not 

he  future  was  secure ; 
at  I  had  only  to  con- 
Lsure  and  enjoyment 

)n  a  dress,  which  was 
my  hair-dresser  had 
)bon  in  the  Grecian 
[  was  alone.  I  was 
come  and  pass  the 
week  before,  that  I 
It  was  in  regard  to 
scratch ;  who  wanted 
lad  promised  me  five 
im ;  and  I  wished  to 

in  my  absence,  and 
Dme  again  the  next 
<  over  my  shoulders, 
e  glass  ;  and  this  time 
elieved  it  ten  years 
hat  kind  of  faces  my 


old  acquaintances  would  make,  if  they  could  see  me  just  as  I  stood 
there  then  ;  and  I  promenaded  before  the  glass,  talking  to  myself  as 
merrily  as  could  be,  until  I  heard  a  rap.  I  Hew  to  the  door,  and 
the  Hon.  William  L.  Dayton  stood  before  me.  He  was  surprised  at 
my  toilet,  and  withdrew  a  step,  saying  :  "  You  are  going  out  ?  "  "  No," 
said  I,  "not  at  all :  I  have  been  waiting  for  you."  "But,"  he  con- 
tinued, "you  are  dressed  to  go  out."  "No,"  said  I,  "  I  am  dressed 
to  receive  you."  He  smiled,  and  came  in  ;  and,  as  we  passed  through 
the  antechamber  into  the  parlor,  he  said  to  me,  that  he  had  just  got 
away  from  Willie,  who  had  gone  to  the  theatre  Palais  Royal. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  tell  me  what  the  important  matter  is,  that  you 
intimated  to  me  in  your  note."  I  went  and  got  a  paper.  It  was 
Mr.  Ratscratch's  application  to  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Aiifairs. 
"  Nonsense,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dayton,  as  soon  as  I  told  him,  that  Mr. 
Ratscratch  desired  to  be  decorated  ;  "what  fools  Americans  do  make 
of  themselves,  the  moment  they  cross  the  Atlantic.  I  always  feel 
ashamed  of  myself,  whenever  I  put  on  my  uniform  ;  for  I  feel,  as 
though  all  that  tinsel  were  beneath  an  American  citizen." 

I  then  read  him  the  application.  Mr.  Ratscratch  had  founded  a 
new  branch  of  industry  in  France,  which  had  greatly  enriched  the 
dei)artment,  in  which  it  was  established ;  and  it  was  for  that  reason, 
that  he  laid  claim  to  be  decorated  as  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor. 

Mr.  Dayton  promised  me,  that  he  would  liave  the  apjilication 
drawn  up  at  his  office  in  proper  form,  and  that  he  would  present  it 
at  once  to  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  with  whom  he  was  on 
excellent  terms,  and  that  he  would  press  it,  so  as  to  get  it  through 
before  he  left.  "  What,"  said  I,  "  are  you  going  to  leave  France  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  going  to  send  Mr.  Seward  my  resignation 
very  soon  ;  for  I  am  tired  of  this  position,  where  I  spend  about  six 
thousand  dollars  above  my  salary ;  and  I  want  to  go  home  on  Wil- 
lie's account,"  Said  I :  "  How  sorry  I  am,  that  you  are  going  away  ! 
for  you  alone  can  piotect  me  against  the  envy  and  jealousy  of  the 
Americans." 

He  told  me,  that  he  would  recommend  me  strongly  to  his  succes- 
sor, and  would  do  all  he  could  for  me.  I  then  asked  him  to  intro- 
duce me,  before  he  left,  to  two  French  noblemen,  who  held  good 
positions  at  court.  "  Why  do  you  want  to  know  them  ?  "  he  asked. 
Saidl:    "  I  want  their  protection."     "Yes,"  rejoined  Mr.  Dayton, 


I  lo 


A  JUDGE   OF   HORSE-FLESH. 


'rirl      ' 


f  I 


"  that  is  all  very  well  for  you  ;  but  who  is  going  io  protect  iJian?" 
and  we  both  began  to  laugh.  He  continued  :  "  You  know  too  many 
people  now,  and  you  have  all  the  young  men  abusing  you."  "Yes," 
I  replied,  "all  the  ft't/fs  crcv'es  whom  1  turned  out  of  doors."  "No, 
no,"  said  IMr.   Dayton,  "  something  better  than   they.     It  was   the 

Marquis  de  T ,  who  told  me,  a  few  days  ago,  that  he  found  you 

on  your  reception-day  surrounded  by  a  ])retty  tast  set;  and  I  was 
very  sorry  to  hear  it  too."  "What,"  said  1,  "did  that  little  English 
Marquis  dare  to  speak  so  to  you  of  me?  He  was  piqued,  that  I  did 
not  take  a  fancy  to  him.  You  know  yourself,  that  he  has  a  face  of 
the  color  and  shape  of  a  lobster,  and  that  he  walks  like  one  too.  He 
met  none  but  his  superiors  here,  tlie  envious  little  fellow  !"  "'J'ut, 
tut,"  rei)lied  Mr.  Dayton,  interrujiting  me,  and  taking  the  Marquis' 
pait,  "  I  know  better ;  for  he  is  considered  the  best  judge  of  horse-tlesh 
in  Paris."  Said  I  :  "  I  would  not  trust  him 'to  buy  me  a  jackass." 
Mr.  Dayton  could  no  longer  restrain  his  laughter.  Hut  I  continued  : 
"  And  to  prove  to  you,  that  he  has  even  less  sense  than  a  well-bred 
donkey,  I  will  tell  you  what  happened  a  few  days  ago,  at  a  dinner- 
party, where  the  Marcpiis  was  invited. 

".'\11  the  guests  were  assembled  excei)ting  the  jNTarcpiis,  and  it  was 
already  twenty  minutes  past  the  dinner  hour.  l'"inally  the  host  gave 
hill)  up,  and  we  all  sat  down  to  the  table.  The  first  course  was 
served,  when  the  waiter  lianded  the  host  a  piece  of  folded  paper, 
which  was  so  soiled  and  misshapen,  that  any  one  could  have  guessed, 
it  had  l>een  written  in  a  stable.  Our  host  touk  the  note,  but  coiikl 
only  make  out  the  meaning  of  one  word,  and  that  was  the  signature, 
which  he  believed  to  be  tiiat  of  tiie  Manjuis.  '  Ah,'  said  he,  '  this 
nuist  be  the  Marc[uis'  I'xcuse  ;  "  and  we  all  reu.ained  silent,  exi)e<:t- 
uig  to  know  wiiy  we  had  been  dei)rived  of  his  company,  llut  it  was 
too  nuich  for  ihe  host  :  so  he  handed  the  note  to  a  lady,  who  sat 
next  to  him  ;  but  she  could  not  make  out  a  word  of  it  either,  ami 
passed  it  to  the  next,  until  it  went  round  the  table.  l\acli  one  had 
his  remark  to  make,  Vv'hich  would  set  the  table  m  a  roar.  The  lu- 
dicrously shai)ed  note  coming  from  an  English  nobleman,  and  the 
witty  r(Mnarks  of  the  convi-'cs,  affoided  such  merriment,  tiiat  tlie 
dining  room  was  deafened  with  laughter.  It  liad  just  reached  its  full 
height,  when  who  was  ushered  into  the  dining-room  but  the  Marquis 
himself? 

"His  presence  fell  upon  us  like  a  bomb,  and,  in  a  second,  our 


tile 
ing 
A 
and 
terest 
eveni 
tiiat 

«<^ 
depai 
Affai 
and 
with 
ceed 
claim 
hope, 
Ml 
one, 
like  1 
of  hi 


I  ^M 


■y- 


protect  them  ? " 

know  too  many 

you."     "Yes," 

doors."     "  No, 

It  was  the 

at  he  found  you 

set ;    and   I  was 

at  little  English 

]ued,  that  I  did 

le  has  a  face  of 

ve  one  too.   He 

ellow!"      "Tut, 

ng  the  Marciuis' 

Ige  of  horse-llesh 

y  me  a  jackass." 

>ut  I  continued : 

than  a  well-bred 

Lgo,  at  a  dinner- 

lr(iuis,  and  it  was 
dly  the  host  gave 

first   course  was 

of  folded  paper, 
ild  have  guessed, 
e  note,  but  could 
I'as  the  signature, 
kh,'  said  he,  '  this 
lmI  silent,  expect- 
any.  Ikit  it  was 
3  a  lady,  who  sat 

of  it  cither,  ami 
Each  one  had 

a  roar.  The  Iti- 
bleman,  and  the 
riment,  that  the 
it  reached  its  full 

but  the  Marquis 

in  a  second,  our 


THE  PROSrFXTS  OF  RATSCRATCH. 


Ill 


])eals  of  laughter  were  changed  into  a  death-like  silence,  and  ^ich  one 
looked  down  straight  into  his  plate,  as  though  he  were  making  his  ex- 
amination of  conscience  ;  for  the  thought  came  simultaneously  to  us 
ail,  that  he  might  have  heard  what  we  had  said.  There  was  not  a  smile 
on  the  face  of  one  of  us  during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  we  all 
waited  patiently  for  him  to  leave  that  we  ibight  have  our  fun  ;  but  he 
outstaid  the  whole  of  us  !  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  to  write 
a  note  of  excuse,  which  it  would  i)uzzle  a  magician  to  read,  and  which 
to  this  day  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  make  out,  and,  after  fright- 
ening us,  to  bore  us  to  death !     I  have  not  recovered  from  it  yet." 

Mr.  Dayton  laughc-d  all  the  while,  that  I  was  relating  this  silly 
story,  which  I  finished  by  asking  him,  if  h?  would  let  such  an  igno- 
rant jockey  pass  judgment  on  me.  "  No,"  said  Mr.  Dayton,  "  I  re- 
tract, and  pronounce  judg4iient  in  your  favor."  "And,  Avell  you 
may  ; "  said  I,  "  for  he  only  met  the  most  charming  gentlemen  in 
Paris  here  ;  but  who  keep  their  horses  in  their  stables,  without  eating 
and  .sleeping  with  them,  as  the  Marquis  docs." 

In  this  frivolous  strain  we  kept  up  our  conversation  for  about 
twenty  minutes.  I  appeared  reckless  and  overjoyed  ;  but  I  was,  in 
reality,  serious  and  anxious  ;  for  1  was  thinking  all  the  while  about 
the  five  thousand  dollars,  and  what  he  had  said  to  me  about  his  leav- 
ing Paris.  _  i 

Afr.  i:)ayton  had  always  been  a  good  friend  to  me.  I  liked  him, 
and  esteemed  him  more,  than  any  gentleman,  who  had  taken  an  in- 
terest in  me.  But  I  very  seldom  saw  him,  as  I  rarely  passed  an 
evening  at  home.  So  I  now  felt,  that  the  time  was  precious,  and 
that  1  imist  do  all  I  could  to  enlist  his  sympathies,  so  that  he  would 
go  to  work  at  once  and  press  my  application  through  the  different 
(le|)artuients ;  for,  after  being  ajiproved  by  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  it  had  to  pass  through  the  hands  of  the  Minister  of  Agriculture  " 
and  Commerce.  Mr.  Dayton  told  me,  that  his  relations  were  good 
willi  both  these  gentlemen,  and  he  felt  confident,  that  he  would  suc- 
ceed with  them  ;  for  he  considered  that  Mr.  Ratscratch  had  a  good 
claim  to  set  forth.  1  was  so  overjoyed,  when  he  gave  me  so  much 
hope,  Uiat  I  was  profuse  in  my  exiiression  of  my  gratitude. 

Mr.  Dayton  was  an  open-hearted,  candid,  jiure-minded  man  ;  and 
one,  who  was  totally  off  his  guard  against  the  seductions  of  a  woman 
like  myself.  I  began  to  assume  a  dreamy  sadness,  as  if  at  the  thought 
of  his  dei)arture.     I   was  partly  in  earnest ;  for  he  was  my  sincere 


fT 


I 


112 


A   PROTECTOR. 


1 


f^>- 


m 


i  m[<: 


\ 


y  11  I 


i  H 1 


'If 

Si        ■! 


1 


friend,  and  had  been  of  great  service  to  me ;  and  ho  was  a  frieiul, 
that  could  be  relied  upon.  He  was  all,  that  I  needed  to  protect  me 
against  the  malice  of  the  Americans,  who,  by  this  time,  hud  become 
exceedingly  bitter  against  me,  on  account  of  my  pretensic-ns,  my  in- 
discretions, and  my  success. 

He  was  touched  and  moved  at  my  expressions  of  tender  regret, 
and  even  surprised  ;  and  he  candidly  admitted,  that  it  was  only  the 
persecutions  o*"  others,  that  had  drawn  him  to  m?. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  said  he,  "  what  a  pity  it  is,  that  you  have 
not  your  family  here  to  protect  you."  "Ah,"  I  replied,  "then  it  is 
to  my  misfortunes  alone,  that  I  am  indebted  for  so  much  sympathy. 
If  such  is  the  truth,  I  shall  hereafter  call  them  by  some  other  name.". 
And  thus  we  continued  to  converse  ;  until  he  at  last  arose,  and  began 
to  walk  the  room,  like  a  man  struggling  to  master  an  inward  strife. 
But  he  soon  resumed  his  seat,  and  iii  a  few  minutes  pressed  his  hand 
to  his  forehead,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  my  head  !  1  feel  sick  ;  get 
something,  that  will  relieve  me."  I  rushed  into  the  bedroom  aud 
got  some  bay-rum. 

When  I  returned,  he  was  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  sofa,  with  his 
head  bowed  down  upon  his  breast.  I  raised  his  head,  and  began  to 
bathe  it.  "Do  not  leave  me  alone  again  ;  "  he  said,  "(^h,  1  am  so 
sorry  I  came  !  I  am  so  sorry  I  came  ! "  and  he  made  an  eftbrt  to 
disgorge.  I  sent  the  maid  at  once  for  a  physician.  W'lirn  I  rt'turned, 
1  found  him  sitting  as  I  had  left  him,  but  his  eyes  were  closed  :  said 
he  :  "  Do  not  leave  me  alone  again,  I  cannot  see  ;  you  must  not 
leave  me  alone."  I  moistened  a  handkerchief  with  bay-ruiu,  and  sup- 
porting his  head  with  my  arm,  I  placed  the  handkerchief  on  his  left 
temple.  That  seemed  to  relieve  him  ;  for  he  thanked  me,  and  saitl : 
"  You  are  a  good  child  ;  but  do  not  leave  me  plone  again." 

For  a  while  neflher  of  us  spoke.  At  last  I  broke  the  silence,  and 
asked  him,  if  he  would  not  like  to  lie  down.  He  answered  by  a 
slight  motion  of  the  head.  I  ran  into  the  bedroom,  snatched  up  a 
pillow,  and  returned  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  found  him,  as  I  re- 
entered the  room,  with  his  head  down  on  the  sofa ;  he  had  fallen  on 
his  right  side.  I  supposed,  diat  he  had  tried  to  lie  down.  I  i)!aced 
the  ])illow  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and  told  him  to  lay  his  head  on 
the  pillow ;  but  he  did  not  move,  nor  answer  me.  I  finally  sue 
ceeded  in  placing  the  pillow  tmder  liis  head,  and  stretching  his  form 
upon  the  sofa ;  but  I  nearly  fainted   with  exiiaustion  in   the  effort. 


we 


DEATH. 


113 


1  ho  was  a  fiiciul, 

cd  to  protect  me 

:iinc',  hud  become 

etensic/iis,  my  in- 

of  tender  regret, 
t  it  was  only  tlie 

is,  that  you  have 

)lied,  "  then  it  is 

much  sympathy. 

ome  other  name." 

:  arose,  and  begaii 

■  an  inward  strife. 

■i  pressed  his  hand 

1   feel   sick  ;  get 

he  bedrooui  and 

the  sofii,  with  liis 

:ad,  and  began  to 

d.     "  Oh,  1  am  so 

made  an  eflort  to 

\Vht'n  I  returned, 

were  closed  :   said 

id  ;  you  must  not 

bay-ruiu,  and  suj)- 

-Tchief  on  his  left 

ked  me,  and  said  : 

:  again." 

ce  the  silence,  and 
[e  answered  by  a 
im,  snatched  u[)  a 
)und  him,  as  I  re- 
he  had  fallen  on 
i  down.  I  placed 
o  lay  his  head  on 
le.  1  finally  sue 
tretching  his  form 
ion   in    the  effort. 


1  i' 


He  began  to  breathe  loudly  and  harshly.  I  thought  he  hr^d  fallen 
asleep.  He  continued  to  breathe  thus  for  several  minutes.  Then 
there  was  a  i)ause, — a  deep  silence.  He  drew  one  long  last 
breath  ; — and  was  dead. 

I  thought  that  he  slept  soundly.  The  fire  had  gone  down  in  the 
fire|)lace ;  so  I  took  off  my  opera-cloak  and  threw  it  over  him,  and 
wrapt  up  his  right  hand  in  the  ermine  hood.  I  took  the  candle  and 
placed  it  on  the  floor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  chinmey,  that  the 
light  might  not  shine  on  his  eyelids.  I  looked  at  the  clock  :  it  was 
twenty  minutes  past  nine.  I  thought  chat  I  should  let  him  sleep 
until  ten,  and  that  it  would  then  be  time  for  him  to  go  home.  I 
moved  softly  about  the  room,  that  I  might  not  wake  him. 

The  maid  returned,  and  told  me  that  the  doctor,  who  resided  in  the 
hotel  was  absent.  "  It  is  all  over  now;"  said  I  ;  "he  is  asleep,  and 
he  will  probably  have  recovered  from  his  headache,  when  he  awakes." 

I  then  returned  to  die  drawing-room,  and  sat  down  by  the  side  of 
the  s/(r/> i fi^  ma.n.  I  remained  by  his  side  for  more  than  half  an -hour, 
thinking,  meditating,  and  building  castles  in  the  air,  as  unconcernedly, 
as  though  that  evening  was  to  end  for  me,  as  brightly  as  it  had  begun. 

The  clock  struck  ten.  I  uncovered  his  hand,  which  I  had  wrapt 
up  in  the  hood  of  the  cloak.  I  took  hold  of  it,  expecting  to  find  it 
warm  ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  it  was  cold  ;  and,  without  suspecting 
why,  I  shrank  instinctively  from  its  touch;  and  droi)ped  it  instantly. 

I  tried  gently  to  rouse  him  ;  and  spoke  to  hini.  I  called  him 
again,  and  then  again,  each  time  raising  my  voice.  I  thought  he  had 
fainted ;  and  I  at  once  began  to  api^ly  the  few  remedies,  I  had  at 
hand,  to  revive  him.  I  felt  for  his  pulse  ;  and  I  imagined,  that  it 
feebly  beat.  I  then  thrust  my  hand  into  his  bosom,  and  placed  it 
over  his  heart  oi^  his  breast ;  it  was  bcvthed  in  a  warm  perspiration  ; 
and  from  this  I  took  hope,  and  still  believed,  that  he  had  only 
swooned  away. 

I  now  called  the  maid  to  help  me  to  revive  him.  I  shook  him 
and  called  him,  as  loud  as  I  could.  Again  I  took  his  hand  ;  but 
this  time  I  was  so  excited,  that  I  was  insensible  to  its  death-like 
touch.  But  the  maid  and  I  perceived  at  the  same  instant  its  deathly 
pallor,  and  the  dark  circle,  which  had  settled  around  the  nails  ;  and 
we  simultaneously  uttered  a  shriek.  The  maid  became  livid  with 
fright,  and  fled  from  the  room.  1  rushed  after  her,  caught  her,  and 
threw  my  arms  around  her  neck,  and  implored  her  not  to  say  one 


114 


THE   HAND   OF   GOD. 


1    i 


word  to  any  one  in  the  house  ;  but  to  go  for  Dr.  Baillard,  Mr.  Day- 
ton's  i)hysir.ian.  "  Anything,  you  ask  ine  ; "  she  said,  "but  to  go 
into  that  room  again;  for  1  am  afraid  of  the  dead."  "  Dead  ! "  I 
exclaimed  :  ''lie  is  not  dead  ;  I  am  sure  of  it,  for  his  breast  is  most 
and  warm.  He  has  only  fainted."  "]5ut,  madam,"  replied  my 
maid,  "the  white  hand!"  "That  is  nothing,"  I  rei)lied ;  for  in 
spite  of  all  I  had  seen,  I  could  r    ;  believe,  that  he  was  dead. 

The  maid  went  for  the  docto..  1  fostened  all  the  doors  of  my 
apartment,  and  then  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  I  raised  tlie 
body  up,  and  ])laced  my  mouth  near  his  ear,  and  implored  him  to 
wake.  His  face  was  rtus'lied,  and  looked  as  natural,  as  in  life  ;  and 
there  still  lingered  on  it  that  kind  and  genial  exi)ression,  which  it 
always  wore.  1  laid  the  head  again  ujjon  the  pillow,  and  placed  my 
hand  again  upon  his  breast ;  it  was  still  warm.  I  got  my  hand  glass, 
and,  kneeling  beside  him  held  it  over  his  mouth  ;  and,  while  I  held 
it  there,  I  prayed.  I  held  it  several  minutes,  fearing  to  look  at  its 
surface  ;  for  on  it  hung  my  last  hojie.  "  O  God  ! "  I  cried,  "  have 
mercy  on  me!"  At  last  I  ventured  to  turn  the  glass.  Ah,  never 
stiall  I  forget  that  look.  What  did  I  see?  Instead  of  moisture, 
nothing  but  my  own  affrighted  face.  I  shrieked  :  "  it  cannot  be  ;  he 
is  not  dead  !     I  did  not  hold  it  long  enough  ! " 

I  tried  again,  and  pressed  the  glass  more  closely  to  his  lips  ;  and 
held  it  longer  than  before,  all  the  while  imploring  (lod  to  have  mercy 
on  me.  Then,  with  trembling  hand  I  turned  the  glass,  and  looked 
again,  and  saw  my  face  as  clearly  as  before. 

I  rose,  and  staggered  to  the  table  ;  and  my  first  thought  was  ;  "  this 
is  the  //(T/itf  of  G(h//"  I  felt,  that  God  was  there  ;  and  I  knelt  down 
and  implored  Him  to  forgive  me  ;  to  have  mercy  on  me ;  to  take 
pity  on  me  ;  and  to  give  him  back  his  breath,  just  long  enough  for  me 
to  get  him  to  his  home.  I  prayed,  and  prayed  with  faith ;  believing, 
tluu  God  was  all-powerful  ;  that,  as  He  had  taken  away  his  breath. 
He  could  give  it  back  to  him  again. 

I  then  arose,  and  turned  towards  the  dead  man,  expecting  to  find 
him  alive.  I  could  not  be  resigned.  I  raised  him  uj)  again,  ami 
implored  (iod  more  fervently  than  before,  to  give  him  back  life,  only 
for  an  hour ;  just  long  enough  for  him  to  reach  his  home,  so  that  his 
family  might  never  find  him  there.  1  held  him  up,  and  prayed  until 
I  lost  all  hope  :  then  instantly  my  strength  failed  me,  and  the  corpse 
fell  from  my  grasp,  with  a  heavy  bound,  back  upon  the  pillow. 


't 


',:^t 


4 


DESPAIR. 


115 


aillard,  Mr.  Day- 

iaid;  "but  to  po 

]."      "Dead!"  I 

is  breast  is  most 

un,"    replied   my 

rei)lied ;    for  in 

ivas  dead. 

the  doors  of  my 

n.     I  raised   tlie 

implored  him  to 

xl,  as  in  life  ;  and 

)ression,  which  it 

\v,  and  placed  my 

ot  my  hand  glass, 

and,  while  1  held 

ring  to  look  at  its 

"   I  cried,  "  have 

glass.     Ah,  never 

;ead  of  moisture, 

'  it  cannot  be  ;  he 

to  his  lips  ;  and 
Jod  to  have  mercy 
glass,  and  looked 

lought  was  ;  "  this 
and  I  knelt  down 
r  on  me ;  to  take 
)ng  enough  for  me 
\  fliith ;  believing, 
n  away  his  breath, 

expecting  to  fiii<i 
im  up  again,  and 
him  back  life,  only 

home,  so  that  his 

and  i)rayed  until 
le,  and  the  corpse 

the  pillow. 


Trembling  with  fear,  1  left  his  side,  and  knelt  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  the  furthest  from  where  he  lay,  and  there  I  prayed  once  more. 
IJut  this  time  I  invol  •  1  the  sacred  name  of  Jesus.  Years  and 
years  had  passed,  since  i  had  called  upon  that  holy  name  ;  and,  as 
my  lips  pronounced  it,  the  hills  of  Amenia  came  up  before  me,  as  m 
a  vision,  and  I  remembered  the  days  of  innocent  childhood,  and  the 
delight,  that  my  soul  then  found  in  the  word  of  (lod.  For  an  in- 
stant, a  ray  of  comfort  lighted  up  my  desolate  soul ;  but  it  as  quickly 
passed  away.  For  my  doubts  at  once  thrust  themselves  upon  me, 
and  quenched  that  light ;  and  1  was  left  alone  once  more  in  darkness. 
In  that  instant  a  feeling  of  unutterable  despair  came  over  me,  and, 
like  my  husband,  I  too  wished,  that  I  had  never  doubted. 

I  remained  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  almost  afraid  to  stir,  until  I 
heard  a  knocking  at  the  door.  I  was  afraid  to  open,  till  I  heard  my 
name  feebly  pronounced  ;  and  recognized  the  voice  of  my  maid.  I 
learned  from  her,  that  the  doctor  had  retired,  and  refused  to  come 
before  morning.  "Did  you  tell  him,"  I  incpiired,  "that  it  was  for 
Mr.  Dayton  ?"  "  No  ;"  said  she,  "  I  was  afraid  to  speak  his  name. 
Ah,  madam,  how  can  you  stay  in  that  room  ?  The  doctor  atiked  me, 
if  you  were  ill.  I  told  him,  no,  but  that  you  wanted  to  see  him." 
"  Oh  horror,"  I  moaned,  "  and  must  I  wait  here  alone  another  hour 
while  you  get  the  doctor."  I  sent  her  again,  to  say,  that  Mr.  Dayton 
had  been  taken  very  ill  in  my  parlor.  I  sent  a  servant  for  the  book- 
keeper, whom  1  told  that  the  \merican  minister  was  taken  very  ill 
in  my  rooir.s  ;  and  I  requested  him  to  send  v/ord  to  his  family  to  come 
in  their  carriage  for  him. 

Alone  once  more  with  the  dead  body. 

I  soon  became  calm  ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind,  as  to  what  I 
should  do.  I  resolved  to  put  a  bold  face  on  the  whole  matter.  I 
was  the  only  one,  who  knew,  that  he  was  dead  ;  and  I  determined  to 
get  him  home,  before  the  police  should  know  anything  of  it. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  when  Dr.  Baillard  arrived.  He  and  Mr. 
Dayton  were  bosom  friends,  and  the  doctor  loved  Mr.  Dayton  as  a 
brother.  He  leaned  over  him,  placed  his  fingers  on  his  pulse,  and 
instantly  1  saw  his  hand  tremble  and  his  face  turn  pale.  He  placed 
his  hand  on  the  dead  man's  heart,  heaved  a  sigh,  and  then  opened  one 
of  his  eyes,  which  was  fixed  and  stared  glaringly  at  him.  He  quickly 
closed  it,  staggered  back  a  few  steps,  then  came  up  to  me,  and  stood 
in  an  attitude,  as  though  he  were  going  to  strike  me.    I  looked  at  him, 


t 


m    Hi 


j(    ;  jj 


I-; 


Mi 


:'1 

I:   I 


m  vm 


u6 


THE   SON. 


as  calmly,  as  though  I  had  not  the  slighest  suspicion  of  what  was 
passing  through  his  mind.  Said  he  :  "  Do  you  know,  that  /le  is  dcujc/i" 
"Certainly,"  1  replied:  "he  must  have  died  a  few  moments  after 
nine ;  but  I  knew  it  not  until  after  ten  ;  for  I  thought  he  was  asleep. 
1  did  all  I  could  for  him,  and  have  been  sending  for  doctors  in  vain 
till  now."  The  doctor  began  to  question  me,  and  was  eyeing  nie 
closely  meanwhile  ;  but  1  answered  his  ([uestions  indifferently,  and 
began  to  lament  over  myself,  for  all  that  I  had  suffered.  "  Hut,"  said 
he ;  "  how  am  I  to  break  this  news  to  his  wife." 

It  was  as  much,  as  I  could  do,  to  ai)pear  calm.  Hut  I  rallied,  as  I 
knew,  that  everything  depended  on  my  selfpossession.  At  that  in- 
stant, Willie  Dayton  came  in,  and  rushed  up  to  me,  shook  hands,  a'v.l 
began  to  apologize  for  coining  so  late.  Then  he  asked  what  was 
the  matter,  that  I  had  sent  for  them  so  urgently.  lUit  before  I  had 
time  to  reply,  he  saw  his  father  lying  on  the  sofa  ;  he  rushed  over  to 
him,  and  said  :  "  What  is  the  matter,  father  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  "  Said  I : 
"Willie,  he  is  dead."  The  son  uttered  a  shriek,  and  threw  himself  on 
the  dead  body  of  his  father, — and  began  to  kiss  him,  and  screamed 
out ;  "  Qh,  father,  speak  to  me,  s])cak  to  me."  The  doctor  came 
and  took  him  off  the  sofa,  and  supported  bin),  or  he  would  have  sunk 
on  the  floor.  Then  Willie  said  to  the  doctor  :  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
were  with  him."  Then,  as  though  recollecting  himself',  he  turned  to 
me,  and  said  :  "l»ut  how  came  he  here  ?"  Said  I  :  "  He  came  to 
call  on  Mr.  Vanderpoel,  (who  was  then  residing  at  the  Hotel  du 
Louvre  ;)  but  it  api)ears  he  was  out,  and  so  he  came  x\\)  to  see  nic. 
He  came  in  very  ill.  1  sent  out  for  a  doctor  at  once  ;  but  he  had 
gone  to  tile  theatre.  I  did  all  I  could  for  him."  'I'iien  the  doctor 
said  to  me,  surprised  :  "  Did  he  come  in  ill  ?  "  Willie  answered  : 
"  Certainly  ;  for  he  must  have  left  nie  a  few  moments  before,  and 
he  complained  of  having  a  headache." 

The  doctor's  manner  then  became  more  gentle  towards  me.  Mr. 
Dayton's  youngest  son  also  arrived,  and  I  drove  home  with  him  and 
AVillie  to  break  the  news  to  Mrs.  Dayton.  As  soon  as  we  left,  the  doctor 
called  two  of  the  porters,  and  told  them,  that  Mr.  Dayton  had  fainted, 
and  would  have  to  be  carried  down  to  his  carriage.  The  porters  seated 
the  dead  man  in  a  chair.  The  doctor  assisted  them  to  put  him  in  his 
carriage,  and  they  drove  olT  as  (piickly  as  possible.  All  was  done  so 
promptly,  and  with  so  much  discretion,  that  the  police  did  not  get 
the  slightest  clew  to  what  had  happened  until  the  following  morning. 


THE   WIFE  AND   DAUGHTER. 


117 


r.ut  I  rallied,  as  I 
hsion.     At  that  in- 

shook  hands,  ;i'yj. 

e   asked  what  was 

l)iit  before  I  had 

he  rushed  over  to 
wu  ill  ?  "  Said  I : 
d  threw  himself  on 
iin,  and  screamed 
The  doctor  came 
e  would  have  sunk 
'  I  am  so  glad  you 
nselt",  he  turned  to 
I  :   "  He   came  to 

at  the  Hotel  dii 
ime  up  to  see  me. 
once  ;  but  he  had 

Then  the  doctor 
Willie  answered  : 
ments  before,  and 

towards  me.  Afr. 
ome  with  him  and 
.  we  left,  the  doctor 
ayton  had  fainted, 
rhe  porters  seated 
to  put  him  in  his 
All  was  done  so 
olice  did  not  get 
[lowing  morning. 


When  I  arrived  at  the  house,  Mrs.  Dayton  was  standing  in  the 
corridor,  looking  over  the  balustiade,  and,  the  moment  she  heard  the 
door  close,  she  called  out :  "  Willie,  is  that  you  ?  I  wonder  where 
father  is  :  he  has  not  got  home  yet."  I  began  to  tremble,  and  shrank 
back  ;  but  Willie  pushed  me  forward,  and  told  me  to  go  U])-stairs 
first.  ALrs.  Dayton  was  greatly  surprised  to  see  me.  I  was  wrapped 
u|)  in  my  opera-cloak,  and  the  first  thing  she  said  to  me,  after  shaking 
hands,  was  :  "  Are  you  going  to  a  ball,  or  have  you  just  returned  irom 
one?  What  is  the  matter?"  I  could  not  answer  her.  Jiy  this 
time  Willie  was  in  the  room.  He  threw  his  arms  around  his  mother's 
neck,  and  burst  into  tears. 

Miss  Dayton  took  me  into  her  bedroom,  and  begged  me  to  tell  her 
what  was  the  matter.  But  I  could  not  utter  a  word.  Said  she  : 
"  How  very  pale  you  are  ! "  She  then  arranged  her  bed  and  helped 
me  to  lie  down,  and  begged  nie  to  speak,  asking  if  anything  had 
happened  to  my  child.  The  very  thought,  that  all  was  well  with  her, 
gave  me  breath,  and  I  rei)lied  :  "  It  will  kill  you  to  know."  She 
became  deathly  pale,  and  assured  me,  that  she  was  prepared  for  any- 
thing. I  then  repeated  to  her  what  I  had  told  the  rest.  She  did  not 
weep,  but  the  mental  agony,  which  depicted  itself  on  her  face  ex- 
pressed more  than  tears  could  have  done.  She  walked  the  room 
with  her  hands  tightly  clenched,  and  would  now  and  then  exclaim  : 
"  Poor  ma  ! "  At  last  the  body  was  brought  in.  I  heard  the  valet 
give  orders,  that  it  should  be  laid  in  the  grand  saloon.  It  was  there, 
that  we  used  to  dance.  I  heard  a  shriek  and  a  moan ;  it  was  Mrs. 
Dayton's  voice,  and  it  pierced  me  through  and  through.  Miss  Day- 
ton continued  to  pace  the  room,  and  every  time  her  mother's  voice 
would  reacii  us,  a  new  pang  seemed  to  wrench  her  heart. 

I  could  stand  no  more.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  said  :  "  I  must  go." 
"  No,  no,"  said  Miss  Dayton,  tenderly  ;  "you  must  not  think  of  going 
home  to-night.  Try  to  sleep.  You  look  so  pale  ;  and  your  hands  are 
cold."  She  went  into  her  mother's  room  and  brought  in  a  warming- 
pan,  which,  she  said,  her  mother  had  placed  in  her  father's  bed  to  take 
the  chill  off.  She  put  it  at  my  feet,  and  told  me  that  1  must  try  to  sleep. 
"Sleep!"  thought  I  :  "would  that  I  could  sleep,  and  tiuis  forget  !  " 
Miss  Dayton  recommenced  to  pace  the  room.  1  closed  my  eyes,  and 
feigned  to  be  at  rest.  lUit  I  lay  there,  as  though  I  were  stretched  on 
a  bed  of  Haming  fire  :  I  did  not  dare  to  move,  or  shed  one  tear. 

How  long  I  lay  there  agonizing,  I  cannot  tell ;  for  it  seems  to  me, 


1 

;_ 

.    ; 

i" 

,      ,„.v       I 

V 

Jt- 


ii8 


WHERE  DEATH   HAD   BEEN. 


even  to-day,  like  a  century  ;  so  poignant  were  my  sufferings.  Finally 
they  overpowered  nie  so,  that  1  could  lie  slill  no  longer :  I  rose  and 
declared  that  1  must  go  home.  Miss  Dayton  did  all  she  could  to 
prevail  upon  me  to  stay,  and  it  was  only  after  1  pleaded  that  1  could 
not  remain  away  from  my  child,  that  she  yielded,  and  called  the  valet 
to  accom[)any  me  home.  IJut  the  doctor  had  need  of  his  assistance, 
and  he  could  not  go,  "  Never  mind,"  said  1 :  "  1  will  go  alone,"  It 
was  past  two  o'clock  ;  but  nodiing  could  have  induced  nie  to  remain 
till  morning.  The  carriage  was  still  at  the  door,  waiting  to  take' 
home  the  doctor  :  they  told  me  to  take  it,  and  let  it  return  for  him. 

Paris  was  enveloped  in  a  dense  fog  ;  and,  as  we  drove  through  the 
Champs  Elysees,  the  lamps  shed  through  the  mist  a  weird  light, 
which,  added  to  the  gloom  and  loneliness  of  the  hour,  seemed  to  in- 
crease the  terrors  of  my  soul. 

When  I  got  to  my  rooms,  I  found  my  maid  weeping.  *'  What  are 
you  crying  for  ?  "  I  exclaimed  ;  for  1  felt,  at  the  moment,  as  if  no 
one  could  be  wretched  but  myself.  "  Who  could  help  crying,"  she 
answered,  "  to  see  that  good  man  carried  out  dead  ?  The  doctor 
told  me  that  he  was  dead  ;  and  that  you,  madam,  were  tiie  most  heart- 
less woman  that  he  had  ever  met.  But  1  never  thought  so  until  to- 
night :  and  you  did  not  shed  a  tear  !  " 

Before  1  rellected  where  1  was  going,  I  found  myself  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, Everything  was  strewn  about  the  room  in  great  disorder, 
except  the  jiillow,  that  lay  on  the  arm  of  the  scfa,  and  showed  the 
print  of  his  head.  It  was  like  going  into  a  banquet  hall  where  Death 
had  come,  to  make  it  suddenly  desolate  and  deserted,  and  as  if  he 
had  but  just  taken  his  dei)arture. 

I  (luickly  left  the  room ;  and  when  I  reached  my  bedroom  I  said : 
"  Now  it  is  my  turn  ;  "  and  I  threw  myself  on  the  floor  and  gave  vent 
to  the  torrent  of  grief,  that  was  raging  within  me. 

The  sight  of  my  distress  made  the  girl  weep  for  me.  She  raised  ^ 
me  from  the  floor,  and  placed  me  in  an  arm-chair,  and  began  to  un- 
do my  hair.  She  raised  it  off  my  temples,  to  loosen  the  ribbon. 
She  started  back,  and  then  brought  me  the  very  hand-glas.;,  that  I 
had  held  over  Mr.  Dayton's  mouth.  "  Go  !  "  1  exclaimed,  "  I  can 
never  look  into  that  again."  "But,"  said  she,  "do,  madam,  look  and 
see  :  look  at  your  hair."  1  did,  a.s  she  told  me  :  many  of  my  hairs 
had  turned  gray.  Then  she  began  to  weep  and  pity  me,  for  all  tlia* 
1  must  have  suffered. 


RETROSPECT   OF   A   NIGHT, 


119 


fferings.    Finally 

igcr  :   I  rose  ami 

all  she  could  to 

ulcd  that  I  could 

d  called  the  valet 

of  his  assistance, 

ill  go  alone."     It 

ced  nie  to  remain 

■,  waiting  to  take 

it  return  for  him. 

drove  through  the 

ist  a  weird  light, 

ur,  seemed  to  in- 


I  too  wept,  until  I  was  bathed  in  tears.  I  chanced  to  look  up, 
and  saw,  that  I  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  wardrobe  mirror,  just  where  [ 
had  stood  admiring  myself  with  so  much  satisfaction,  when  Mr.  Day- 
ton rapped.  But  1  had  to  recollect  myself  ;  for  it  seemed,  as  if  a  year 
had  passed  over  my  head  since  then.  What  a  change  !  and  1  began 
to  contrast  the  beginning  with  the  ending  of  the  night.  1  remem- 
bered my  reflections  just  before  Mr.  Dayton  came;  and  I  thought 
that,  if  my  old  accpiaintances  could  see  me  then,  as  1  sat  there,  they 
would  see  very  little  to  envy  me  for ;  and  thinking  of  them  brought 
back  to  my  mind  the  hills  of  Amenia,  its  free  forests  and  happy  plains, 
and,  for  the  first  time  since  1  had  left  them,  1  wished  that  I  had 
never  seen  beyond  their  horizon. 


img.  "  What  are 
moment,  as  if  no 
help  crying,"  she 
id  ?  The  doctor 
re  the  most  heart- 
ought  so  until  to- 

yself  in  the  draw- 
in  great  disorder, 
1,  and  showed  the 
t  hall  where  Death 
rted,  and  as  if  he 

y  bedroom  I  said  : 
loor  and  gave  vent 

r  me.  She  raised 
and  began  to  un- 

oosen  the  ribbon, 
hand-glas.;,  that  I 

ixclaimed,   "  I  can 

,  madam,  look  and 
many  of  my  hairs 

ity  me,  for  all  iha' 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

•iUE   RECOLLECTION'    OF   THE    PAST    SAVES     MK    FROM     A     DRUNKARD'S 
GRAVE. — THE    "  SISTERS    OF    HOPE." 

The  sudden  death  of  the  American  minister  in  my  apartments 
soon  became  the  talk  of  Paris.  The  American  colony  was  very 
much  excited  ;  and  in  a  few  days  an  American  otirtcial  solicited  an 
interview,  and  requested  me  to  state  to  him  the  circumstances  of  Mr. 
Dayton's  deaUi,  in  order  that  he  might  inform  Mr.  Seward. 

Just  before  1  saw  him,  Mr.  Ratscratch  told  me,  that  he  was  the 
wcMst  enemy  I  had  in  Paris,  and  repeated  to  me  some  of  his  remarks. 
To  be  revenged,  yet  to  satisfy  him,  I  gave  him  a  long  account,  draw- 
nig  minute  and  pathetic  circumstances  merely  from  my  imagination, 
while  to  protect  myself  I  carefully  concealed  as  much,  as  I  thought 
desirable  of  the  Ratscratch  business,  which  had  led  to  Mr.  Dayton's 
visit. 

One  evening  I  was  accompanied  home  from  an  evening  party  by 
Kdmond  de  Lesseps  and  a  young  Irishman.  I  felt  myself  plunged  in 
jirofoundest  melancholy  and  grief.  My  conscience  seemed  to  reproach 
nie  with  every  sin,  that  I  had  ever  committed.  My  young  Irish  friend 
undertook  to  prescribe  a  remedy,  that  would  certainly  cheer  me,  and 
ordered  for  me  a  hot  "sling;"  and,  I  suppose  to  encouragj  me  to 
take  the  medicine,  he  ordered  one  for  himself.     I  drank  it  nearly  at 


(P  :^  W 


1 20 


MEDICINE   FOR   MELANCHOLY. 


one  draught.  Hardly  liad  I  taken  it,  when  all  my  sadness  disai)- 
peared,  and  I  felt  as  gay  and  merry  as  ever  in  my  life.  Jn  a  few 
moments  he  ordered  another  ;  and  1  drank  that  too,  as  (luickly  as 
the  first.  As  soon  as  I  felt  the  effects  of  the  draught,  I  exclaimed ; 
"Whenever  I  am  sad,  I  shall  know  what  to  do  to  chase  grief  away; 
thank  Heaven  I  have  found  an  antidote  to  sorrow.  I  will  never  siif. 
fer  again,  so  long  as  this  medicine  is  within  reach."  "  It  is  a  wonder," 
said  my  young  friend,  "  that  you  never  thought  of  it  before.  It  is  the 
only  thing,  that  will  drive  away  care.  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass ; 
you  look  as  animated  and  fresh  as  an  Hebe  ;  "  and  he  ordered  a  third. 

I-esseps  looked  sad,  and  would  not  drink.  He  seemed  to  be  dis- 
pleased at  the  scene,  and  to  look  reproachfully  at  me  when  1  turned 
to  him.  I  began  to  wonder,  why  it  was,  that  1  had  never  resorted 
to  this  means  of  excitement  before  :  when  all  at  once  1  was  startled 
by  a  recollection  of  the  past.  In  an  instant  all  my  strength  left  me, 
and  I  sank  in  my  chair,  as  though  1  had  been  pushed  back  by  a  blow. 
All  my  sadness  and  depression  returned  ;  for  I  remembered  two 
women,  whom  I  had  seen  standing  in  two  different  grog-sho[)s  ;  and 
the  thought  passed  through  my  mind,  that  there  would  soon  be  a 
third,  antl  that  would  be  myself. 

1  now  refused  the  proffered  glass,  and  in  a  determined  tone,  said : 
"  Never."  I.esseps  seized  my  hand  and  kissed  it.  And,  as  my 
young  friend  still  urged  me  to  take  the  glass,  I  took  it  and  threw  it 
into  the  fireplace.  The  thought  Hashed  upon  my  mind,  that  the 
past  would  save  me  ;  and  I  raised  my  heart  to  Clod,  with  a  feeling, 
that  He  had  always  been  good  to  me  after  all.  I  had  often  re- 
proached Him  for  having  haunted  my  life  with  such  horrible  recol- 
lections. But  in  that  moment  I  thanked  Him  for  them.  It  was  the 
first  time,  that  I  had  ever  raised  my  heart  in  loving  gratitude  to  Ood 
for  having  bred  me  upon  sufferings. 

When  my  iriends  took  their  departure,  I  had  hardly  strength  to 
stand.  I  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  until  all  at  once,  that  same  sad 
feeling  took  possession  of  me  again,  and  1  fell  senseless  upon  the  floor. 

I  awoke  only  the  next  morning,  and  found  the  housekeeper  of  the 
hotel  watching  by  my  bedside  ;  my  maid,  she  informed  me,  being 
too  ill  to  attend  me.  She  also  handed  me  the  card  of  Mr.  de  I^es- 
seps.  I  attemi)ted  to  rise,  but  was  seized  with  convulsive  pains,  and 
was  not  able  to  move.     I  was  in  a  burning  fever. 

ijhe  brought  Lesseps  to  my  bedside. 


LESSKPS. 


121 


ly  sadness  disap. 

ly  life.      In  a  lew 

too,  as  ([uickly  us 

ght,  I  exclaimed : 

ijliase  grief  away ; 

I  will  never  suf- 

"  It  is  a  wonder," 

before.     It  is  the 

rself  in  the  glass ; 

le  ordered  a  third. 

seemed  to  be  dis- 

me  when  I  turned 

id  never  resorted 

nee  1  was  startled 

y  strength  left  me, 

ed  back  by  a  bleu-. 

remembered  two 

t  grog-shoi)s  ;  and 

would  soon  be  a 

rmined  tone,  said : 
it.  And,  as  my 
jok  it  and  threw  it 
)iy  mind,  that  the 
od,  with  a  feeling, 
.  I  had  often  re- 
uch  horrible  recol- 
them.  It  was  the 
g  gratitude  to  (lod 

hardly  strength  to 
nee,  that  same  sad 
less  upon  the  floor. 
lousekeeper  of  the 
nformed  me,  being 
ard  of  Mr.  de  Lcs- 
nvulsive  pains,  and 


'■;> 
% 


He  said,  that  he  was  not  surprised  to  find  me  ill,  and  that  he  had 
notic'd  how  greedily  I  had  seized  on  every  kind  of  excitement,  to 
keep  up  my  spirits  since  Mr,.  Dayton's  death  ;  and  that  1  naist  have 
wonderful  vitality,  to  have  resisted  so  long.  He  begged  nie  not  to 
be  sad,  but  to  keep  up  my  spirits  ;  and  promised,  that  he  uould  see 
that  1  had  every  attention.  My  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  the  house- 
keeper, in  arranging  it  off  my  forehead,  showed  Mr.  de  l.esseps 
where  it  had  turned  gray  on  that  fiitnl  night.  Mr.  de  I.esseps  was 
moved  to  tears,  and  said  to  the  hous.  keeper  :  "How  the  world  mis- 
judges us,  when  it  judges  from  appearances !  But,"  said  he,  "  I 
knew  this  lady  was  suffering,  in  spite  of  that  mask  of  reckless  indif- 
ference, which  she  always  wears.  Yet  it  is  for  that,  that  the  world 
api)lauds  and  admires  lier ;  because  it  believes  her  to  be  as  heartless 
as  ilselt." 

'I'he  housekeeper's  duties  obliged  her  to  leave  me  ;  and  the  ques- 
tion arose  :  who  should  attend  me  ?  My  maid  was  nearly  as  ill  as 
myself;  and  there  was  my  child  too.  Afr.  de  Lesseps  at  once 
decided,  what  should  be  done.  "  I  have  a  cousin,"  said  he,  "  who  is 
sni>erior  of  a  convent  in  Spain  ;  and  they  have  a  branch  of  their 
Institute  here,  about  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  hotel.  Their  voca- 
tion is  to  attend  the  sick,  and  they  receive  live  francs  a  day  for  their 
services.  .The  institution  is  called  £es  Sceurs  iV Esperancc,  (The 
Sisters  of  Hope)." 

He  proposed  to  go  immediately  and  get  one  of  the  Sisters  of  Hope 
to  take  care  of  me, 

'I'iie  I^essepses  were  related  to  the  Empress  Eugenie,  and  were,  at 
the  time  I  write  of,  one  of  the  most  favored  and  popular  families  in 
France,  not  alone  on  account  of  their  relationship  to  the  Empress, 
but  for  their  own  intrinsic  merit  and  worth. 

Eesseps  soon  returned,  accompanied  by  a  boy  with  a  large  bundle 
of  toys,  that  he  had  purchased  for  my  child.  When  the  Sister  came, 
my  child  at  once  left  her  playthings,  and  took  hold  of  the  crucifix, 
which  was  suspended  from  the  beads,  that  hung  by  the  Sister's  side. 
The  Sister  said  to  her :  "  Kiss  it,  dear  child  ; "  and,  at  once,  the  child 
placed  it  to  her  lips,  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  The  Sister  was  so 
pleased,  that  she  caught  the  child  up  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  on 
her  forehead.  After  pressing  her  to  her  bosom,  she  placed  her  on 
the  floor,  in  the  midst  of  her  toys  ;  bu.t  the  child  left  them  again,  and 
took  hold  of  the  crucifix,  and  began  kissing  it.     The  Sister  then  said 


m 


I:' 


(J 


122 


PROSTRATION. 


to  her  :  "  What  a  good  Httle  child  you  are,  to  love  Jesus  so  !  "  Afy 
cfiild  was  then  over  two  years  old  :  it  was  the  first  crucifix  she  had 
ever  seen  ;  nor  had  she  ever  he?,rd  the  name  of  Jesus.  I  saw  the 
expression  of  theSistei's  face  change,  when  Mr.  de  Lesseps,  told  her, 
that  we  were  'lot  Catholics,  and  that  the  child  had  never  been  bap 
tized. 

Sir  Joseph  Olliffe,  was  the  physician  who  attended  me.  He  came 
towards  dusk,  and  began  his  treatn^ent ,  but  the  ne.xt  morning  I  m  i 
worse.  The  following  evening  he  became  alarmed  ;  and  the  next 
day  he  brought  the  celebrated  Trousseau,  to  hold  a  consultation. 
They  found  my  condition  most  precarious.  While  there  was  no 
disease,  yet  there  was  a  total  prostration,  such  as  they  had  ne\cr 
witnessed,  unless  caused  by  long  physical  suftering,  and  usually  just 
before  death.  They  spoke  to  me  i)lainly,  because,  as  they  said,  my 
life  depended  on  my  own  will.  If  1  would  only  keep  up  couraL,'e, 
and  drive  from  my  mind  everything,  that  troubled  me,  I  would  soon 
get  well.     At  the  very  mention  of  the  word  trouble  I  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Joseph,  without  my  knowledge,  drove  directly  to  see  Mrs.  Day- 
ton, and  told  her,  that  I  was  dangerously  ill  from  excessive  mental 
excitement.  Miss  Dayton  and  Willie  came  at  once  to  see  me.  in 
tlie  afternoon,  Mrs.  Dayton  sent  me  a  beautiful  box,  with  the  follow- 
ing note  : 

"Mv  Dear  Mrs.  Eckel, 

"  I  regret  exceedingly  to  hear,  that  you  are  still  suffering  as  much 
from  the  excitement,  through  which  you  have  passed. 

"  I  send  you  by  the  l.iearer  some  very  fine  tea,  presented  to  me  by 
Mr.  Burl'nganie,  our  Minister  in  China.  Please  accept  also  the 
box,  in  which  it  is  contained. 

**  Ever  gratefiilly,  yours, 

"  M.  E.  Dayton. 
"Paris,  Dec.  zisf,  6  Rue  de  PREsnoiTRO." 

On  the  fifth  day  1  was  able  to  move  a  little.  The  physician  then 
lirescribed  strengthening  tonics ;  but  so  soon  as  I  had  tasted,  and 
foimd  them  disagreeable,  I  would  send  then)  up  to  my  maid.  I  did 
so  in  fact  with  nearly  every  prescription,  that  the  doctor  left  ino; 
and  I  would  anuise  myself  during  the  day  laughing  at  the  success  of 
this  little   stratagem.     As   Sir  Joseph  (^llilfe  always   si)oke  to  nie  in 


f  heart 

'fi  stron;. 
tl  to  my 
':t  after 

-■:) 
% 

m 


THE  NUN   AND   THE  CHILD. 


123 


Jesus  so  ! "    My 

crucifix  she  had 

esus.     I  saw  the 

Lesseps,  told  her, 

never  been  bivp 

•d  nie.  He  came 
xt  morning  I  s\  1 
ed  ;  and  the  next 
Id  a  consultation, 
lie  there  was  no 
IS  they  had  nc\cr 
;,  and  usually  just 
,  as  they  said,  my 
keej)  up  couraii;e, 
me,  I  would  soon 
I  burst  into  tears. 
r  to  see  Mrs.  Day- 
excessive  mental 
ce  to  see  me.  In 
X,  with  the  foUow- 


i  suffering  as  much 

ed. 

•resented  to  me  hy 

e  accept  also  the 

ours, 

M.  E.  Dayton. 


'he  physician  then 
1  I  had  tasted,  and 
3  my  maid.  I  did 
10  doctor  left  nie; 
L^  at  the  success  of 
lys  spoke  to  me  in 


English,  which  the  nuns  could  not  understand,  they  tliought  that  it 
was  all  right.  The  result  was,  that  1  recovered  long  before  my  maid. 
During  jny  illness,  iiuu'h  of  my  time  was  passed  with  tlie  Sisters 
and  my  child.  My  child  became  fondly  attached  to  the  iiuns,  and 
would  not  leave  them  to  i)lay  with  her  toys.  No  matter  how 
often  she  would  awake  in  the  niglit,  she  would  call  out  at  once  : 
'■  J/ti  Su'ur,  ma  Sa'//r."  As  soon  as  the  nun  would  reach  her,  the 
child  would  say  to  her  :  "y<'  tcux  ctnbrasscr  ie  petit  Jesus."  (1  wish 
to  kiss  the  little  Jesus.)  Tlie  nun  would  hardly  know  whether  to 
scold  her  or  not,  fin*  the  child  would  freciuently  awaken  her  out  of  a 
sound  sleep,  after  she  had  passed  a  fatiguing  day  by  my  bedside. 
1  told  the  Sister,  that  she  must  not  permit  the  child  to  call  her  up  in 
the  night  for  such  a  purpose.  T''«  nun  would  tell  me  to  scold  her 
for  it.  I  told  her  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  do  it,  for  I  loved  to 
hear  her.  "And  so  do  I ; "  rei)lied  the  nun;  "it  is  a  sacrifice  to 
gee  up  ;  but  I  offer  it  up  to  God  each  time."  This  was  anew  lan- 
guage to  me,  which  1  did  not  understand. 

One  evening  the  Sister  retired  later  and  more  weary  than  usual. 
She  had  hardly  got  to  sleep  before  the  child  called  her.  "  This 
time,"  thought  1  to  myself,  "you  will  lose  your  patience."  The  nini 
(pickly  lighted  the  candle,  and  tlew  to  the  child's  side,  believing 
something  ailed  her  ;  for  she  called  her  as  though  she  were  in  dis- 
tress. But  the  moment  she  reached  the  bedside,  the  child  said  to 
her,  in  one  of  her  sweetest  baby-tones  :  "  Ma  Sa'iir,  je  veux  embras- 
ser  le  petit  Jesus."  When  the  nun  returned,  she  lay  down  again  on 
the  sola,  without  saying  a  word.  1  remarked  that  it  was  too  bad, 
that  she  should  be  so  disturbed;  but  she  instantly  replied:  "Oh 
madam,  if  you  could  only  have  seen  her  !  for  the  dear  child  was 
hardly  awake,  when  she  asked  me  to  let  her  kiss  the  crucifix,  and 
she  dropped  to  sleep  while  she  held  it  to  her  lips.  I  can  never  for- 
bid her  to  call  ine,  if  1  should  never  get  another  hour's  rest." 

1  could  not  understand,  why  she  should  feel  so  ;  for  the  love  of 
Jesus  Christ  was  to  me  then  a  deep  mystery,  which  my  obdurate 
heart  could  not  comprehend. 

One  evening   the   child   was    asleep.      I    felt   much   better   and 

;  stronger.     Jt  was  about   nine  o'clock;    when    the  nun    crept  softly 
to  my  bedside,  and  asked  me,  if  I  would  not  repeat  a  little  prayer 

f  after  her,  before  I  went  asleep.     She  knelt  down  by  my  pillow,  and, 
in  one  of  the  gentlest  and  sweelcHt  accents,  she  began  to  say  the 


124 


"IT  IS   THE   lord's   prayer." 


'i;'! 


Lord's  Prayer.  I  repeated  lier  words,  every  tune  she  paused 
When  we  had  finished,  I  told  her,  that  1  had  learned  that  prayer  at 
school  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  that  it  was  a  Protestant  prayer.  1^ 
"Oh,  no,"  she  n  i)lied  ;  "it  is  the  Lord's  Prayer."  "How  sweet  it 
is  in  French!"  said  1,  "let  us  say  it  again."  She  answered:  "It 
must  be  sweet  in  all  tongues  ; "  and  she  knelt,  and  we  said  it  again. 
Just  as  we  had  finished,  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  and  placed  it  on 
her  head,  to  prevent  her  from  rising,  and  I  said  to  her :  "  Sister, 
once  more ;"  and  we  repeated  it  again.  Then  she  rose  and  kisseil 
me,  took  my  hand  and  pressed  it,  and  si.id  to  me,  with  a  finding, 
that  I  know  nnist  have  gushed  from  her  heart :  "  Oh,  madam,  how  I 
wish,  that  you  and  your  lovely  child  were  Catholics  !  I  pray  for  it 
constantly."  Said  I :  "  Don't  pray  for  that,  Sister,  for  that  can  nerer 
be.  But  pray,  that  I  may  get  well,  and  that  I  may  yet  be  happy, 
and  that  my  heart  may  be  at  rest ;  for  I  am  troubled,  and  long  for 
rest."  "I  do  {)ray  for  that,"  said  the  Sister,  "and  only  for  that; 
for  you  can  never  know  rest,  until  you  love  our  Lord."  "'iister," 
said  I,  "don't  speak  to  me  in  that  way."  "I  am  telling  you  the 
truth,"  said  she.  "But,"  I  replied,  "1  do  not  believe  in  it:  you 
can  never  change  me  from  what  I  am."  "  That  is  very  true,"  she 
answered;  "I  can  do  nothing;  but  our  Lord  can  change  you,  and 
I  i)ray  earnestl}',  that  He  will."  "  How  good  you  are  !"  said  1 ;  "but 
you  little  know  the  woman,  that  lies  here  before  you ;  if  you  did,  I 
am  sure  you  would  never  have  kissed  me."  At  those  words  she 
covered  my  cheeks  with  kisses  ;  which  so  affected  me,  that  1  began 
to  weep.  I  told  her  that,  had  it  not  been  for  my  child,  whom  I  saw 
l)laying  before  me  all  day,  1  would  hardly  have  had  the  com  age  to 
breathe.  She  told  me  how  great  had  been  my  danger.  "  Why," 
said  I,  "  I  would  have  loved  to  die,  could  I  have  taken  my  child 
with  me."  "  But,"  I  added  nnisingly,  "  she  is  so  delicate,  I  am  sure 
she  cannot  live  long."  "Do  let  her  be  bai)ti/.ed,"  exclaimed  the 
Sister  to  me  imploringly.  "  That  would  do  no  good,"  said  I  ;  "she 
never  did  wrong,  she  would  go  straight  to  heaven  now."  "Well," 
said  the  Sister,  "you  believe  in  sin.  You  tell  me  you  have  sinned, 
and  perhaps  your  jJareiUs  too  have  sinned  before  you."  'I'liese 
words  pierced  me  ;  for  the  Sister  had  nursed  me  most  tenderly  ;  and 
1  ihougiit,  if  she  only  knew,  who  my  parents  were,  and  what  an  enemy 
one  of  them  had  been  to  \\v\  religion,  how  difterent  might  bo  het 
feelings  towards  me. 


that  y 

to  \WK 

were 

■f 

lialac 

not  c 

so  ha 

carrir 

T. 

and  1 

ll 

him. 

but  1 

:*^ 

a  till 

1 

that 

and 

'9 

0 

"f 

part 

THE  SPECTRE  OF  THE  EEAST. 


125 


hnie   she    paused 
led  that  prayer  at 
I  Protestant  prayer. 
''  How  sweet  it 
lie  answered  :   "  It 
|d  we  said  it  again. 
and  placed  it  011 
to  her  :   "  Sister, 
le  rose  and  kissed 
[le,  with  a  feehng, 
)h,  madam,  how  I 
ics  !     I   pray  for  it 
for  tliat  can  never 
nay  yet  be   haijpy, 
l)led,  and  long  for 
and  only  for  that; 
I-ord."     "Sister," 
:im  telling  you  the 
believe  in  it :  you 
is  very  true,"  she 
m  change  you,  and 
are!"  said  1 ;  "but 
you ;  if  you  did,  I 
.t  those  words  she 
■d  me,  that  1  began 
child,  whom  I  saw 
lad  the  couiage  to 
danger.     "  Why," 
ve  taken  my  child 
delicate,  I  am  sure 
-•d,"  exclaimed  the 
od,"   said  I  ;   "  she 
n  now."     "Well," 
t  you  have  sinned, 
ore   you."      These 
lost  tenderly  ;  and 
mil  what  an  enemy 
rent  might  be  her 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

I.AFKRRlftRK. 

In  January,  1865,  I  received  an  invitation  to  the  first  ball  at  the 
Tuilcries.  Kdmond  de  T-esseps  escorted  me  there,  and  took  me  into 
tlie  J  [all  of  the  JMarshah,  and  gave  me  a  seat  with  his  family,  who  had 
their  places  in  the  seats  reserved  for  the  family  of  the  Kmpi  s,  which 
was  on  the  left  of  the  throne.  I  wore  a  magnificent  toik.  f  white 
tulle,  and  a  wreath  of  ivy  intersi)ersed  with  diamonds. 

That  evening  I  made  the  accpiaintance  of  the  best  people  of  the 
court.  The  Empress,  of  whom  lulmond  de  Lesse|)s  was  a  favorite, 
came  \\\)  and  si)oke  to  us  ;  and  of  course  everybody  else  followed  her 
example.  I  was  elated  with  my  success,  until  Mr.  de  Lesseps  led  me 
into  the  supper-room.  He  happened  to  conduct  me  to  the  very  spot, 
where  I  had  conversed  with  Mr.  Dayton  a  year  before.  Here  I  found 
the  skeleton  of  the  feast  ;  and  what,  a  moment  before,  I  had  enjoyed 
like  a  triumph,  seemed  suddenly  changed  to  a  hideous  "  dance  of 
death."  I  tried  to  disguise  my  feelings,  and  to  appear  gay  and  indif- 
ferent ;  but,  after  a  little,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  I  said  to 
Lesseps :  "  Enough,  let  us  go."  "  \Vhat ! "  said  he,  "  I  did  not  expect, 
that  you  would  leave  before  morning."  Descending  the  stairs,  he  said 
to  me  :  "  I  hope  you  were  satisfied  with  your  evening ;  in  fact  these 
were  the  only  happy  hours  1  have  ever  passed  under  the  roof  of  this 
palace  ;  for  I  have  never  been  here  before  to  a  festivity,  that  I  did 
not  come  away  mournfully  sad.  ikit  to-night  I  was  happy,  to  see  you 
so  happy  ;  "  and  he  continued  to  express  himself  in  this  way  until  our 
carriage  came.  He  handed  me  in.  1  threw  myself  back  in  the  seat 
and  burst  into  tears. 

1  preferred  i^^r.  de  Lesseps  to  any  of  my  friends  ;  yet  1  did  not  love 
him.  IJut  he  loved  me.  He  was  the  youngest  son,  and  had  no  title  ; 
but  he  had  a  heart.  I  was  ambitious  to  marry  a  tide  :  I  felt  that  only 
a  title  would  make  me  happy.  He  knew  mg  thoroughly,  and  deplored 
that  I  should  be  the  slave  to  such  an  illusion  ;  but  he  was  charitable, 
and  attributed  all  my  faults  and  follies  to  a  bad  educadon. 

On  the  last  Sunday  in  January,  1865,  I  was  invited  to  an  evening 
party  at  the  Princess  Sulkowska's.    Lesseps  called  on  me  early  in  the 


126 


IN   HIGH   LIFE. 


evening.  I  was  low-spirited,  and  he  had  been  trying  to  cheer  me  up. 
The  Prince  de  ISTonleard  had  promised  to  call  for  mo,  to  take  me  to  the 
party.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  I, essejis  proposed  to  leave  me, 
that  I  might  make  my  toilet.  I  told  him,  that  I  iiad  not  the  heart  to 
change  my  dress,  and  that  I  was  going,  as  I  was.  Said  he  :  "You  are 
dressed  very  becomingly  ;  but  not  at  all  suitably  for  an  evening  party." 
I  had  on  a  black  velvet  dress  with  train,  fitted  to  my  figure,  in  the  (!a- 
brielle  fashion.  My  hair  was  thrown  off  my  face,  and  looped  u\)  at 
the  back  with  a  diamond  comb.  I^esseps  tried  to  prevail  upon  nic  to 
change  my  dress,  as  others  might  say  that  1  had  only  chosen  that  costume 
in  order  to  be  singular.  1  begged  him  to  leave  me  to  my  caprice  ;  and 
said,  that  others  might  think  what  tliey  i)lcased,  but  change  it  I  would 
not.  "  ]5ut,"  said  he.  "  the  Prince  will  not  accompany  you."  At  diat 
moment  I  heard  a  rap,  and  said  to  Lesseps,  before  I  opened  the  door : 
"Ilmd  me  my  scarf  and  cloak,  and  he  will  not  know  how  1  am 
dressed." 

When  we  arrived,  and  I  was  ushered  into  the  saloon,  I  was  con- 
fused ;  for  there  were  a  few  ladies  assembled,  and  they'  were  all 
dressed  in  the  most  elaborate  style.  I  excused  myself  at  once  to 
the  Princess,  and  told  her,  that  I  had  misunderstood  her  invitation, 
and  supposed  it  to  be  a  mere  informal  reception.  The  Princess,  to 
make  me  feel  at  ease,  redoid)led  her  attention  to  me,  and  excused  nie 
to  her  friends,  by  accusing  herself  of  not  having  made  her  invitation 
sufficiently  clear.     She  conducted  me  to  a  sofa,  and  introduced  nic 

to  the  Countess  de ,  one  of  the  largest  and  homeliest  women 

in  l"'rance, — but  a  lady  of  rank  ;  which  lessened  in  some  degree,  in 
the  eyes  of  many,  her  excessive  i>lumpness.  1  sat  on  the  sofa  beside 
this  lady,  and  was  at  once  reconciled  to  my  toilet ;  for  I  could  easily 
believe,  that  the  contrast  between  us,  as  we  sat  there  together,  was 
not  disadvantageous  to  me.  I  tried  to  arrange  myself  on  the  sf)fa, 
so  as  to  bring  myself  out  in  high  relief,  and  to  make  the  enormous 
form  of  the  Countess  serve  as  a  background  to  the  figure.  The 
door  op'jned,  and  the  valet  ansiounced  the  Viscount  de  Laferriere. 

As  the  Viscount  entered  die  room,  our  eyes  met.  In  an  instant 
the  Princess  was  at  his  .side,  and,  when  she  si)oke  to  him,  he  ap- 
peared like  a  man,  w!  o  had  forgotten  himself  for  a  moment.  After 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  her,  he  retired  into  an  isolated  corner 
of  the  saloon,  directly  oi)posite  to  where  I  sat.  My  eyes  followed 
him,  and,  when  lie  saw,  that  I  was  still  looking  at  him,  a  slight  flush 


-/ 


THE   VISCOUNT. 


127 


ig  to  cheer  me  up. 

,  to  tiike  me  to  the 

)o.sc'(l  to  leave  me, 

(1  not  the  heart  to 

:ii(l  he  :  "  You  are 

in  evening  pnrtv." 

figure,  in  the  Ca- 

and  looped  up  at 

)revail  upon  nie  to 

losen  that  costume 

o  my  caprice  ;  and 

change  it  I  would 

any  you."    At  that 

opened  the  door : 

t  know  how  1  am 

saloon,  I  was  con- 

md   they  were  all 

myself  at  once  to 

•od  her  invitation, 

The  Princess,  to 
L',  and  excused  mo 
lade  her  invitation 
md  introduced  me 

homeliest  women 
n  some  degree,  in 
on  the  sofa  beside 

for  I  could  easily 
here  together,  was 
lyself  on  the  sofa, 
ike  the  enormous 

the  figure.  The 
t  de  I,aferriere. 
et.  In  an  instant 
ce  to  him,  he  a]i- 
a  moment.  After 
an  isolated  corner 
My  eyes  followed 
liim,  a  slight  flush 


■.;^ 


passed  over  his  face,  which  he  instantly  controlled,  and  his  whole 
countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  haughty  indifference. 

I  recommenced  my  conversation  with  the  Countess  ;  but,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  absent-mindedness,  my  eyes  reverted  once  more  towards  the 
A'iscount.  He  was  not  prepared  for  my  glance  ;  for  I  caught  him 
this  time  looking  attentively  at  me  ;  and,  with  a  desire  to  revenge  my- 
self for  the  expression  of  indifference,  which  he  had  assumed,  I  in- 
stantly turned  my  eyes  from  him,  with  an  air  and  a  look,  in  which  I 
tried  to  express  a  feehng  of  disdain.  I  then  looked  triumphantly  at 
him,  to  see  the  effect.  But,  this  time,  his  face  was  calm,  and  on  it 
was  seated  a  deep  shade  of  melancholy,  to  which  my  heart  at  once 
responded  ;  and  his  own  must  have  instantly  divined  what  was  pass- 
ing in  mine,  for  his  face  brightened  ui)  for  an  instant,  and  then  he 
turned  and  left  the  si)ot,  where  he  was  standing,  with  the  air  of  a 
man,  who  was  displeased,  that  another  should  have  been  able  to  di- 
vine his  thoughts. 

The  Viscount  de  lyaferriere  was  tall  in  stature,  and  had  passed  the 
middle  age  :  his  hair  was  blond  and  slightly  tinged  with  gray.  On 
his  left  breast  sparkled  the  insignia  of  the  different  orders,  that 
sovereigns  had  bestowed  upon  him.  His  bearing  and  manners  were 
courtly,  but  extremely  reserved.  The  outlines  of  his  features  were 
noble  and  beautiful :  they  bore  the  impress  of  deep  thought,  shaded 
by  a  tinge  of  melancholy.  This  he  tried  to  conceal,  by  affecting  an 
exiMcssion,  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe,  but  which  is  more  or 
less  assumed  by  men,  who  can  read  cit  a  glance  the  thoughts  of 
others,  but  who  are  not  willing  to  be  read  themselves.  I  chanced  to 
see  him  several  times  again  during  the  evening.  He  was  always 
looking  at  me  ;  but,  these  times,  he  did  not  try  to  avert  his  gaze, 
but  remained  like  a  man,  who  was  looking  at  one  object,  while  his 
thoughts  were  on  another.  I  felt  nettled,  that  he  should  not  have 
asked  the  Princess  to  introduce  him  to  me.  It  wc"=  only  a  small 
gathering  of  between  thirty  and  forty  guests,  and  all  those,  whom  I 
did  not  know,  were  presented  to  me  :  he  was  the  only  exception. 

The  same  week  1  was  at  another  ball  at  the  Tuileries.  1  had  just 
entered  the  Hall  of  the  Marshals,  and  had  left  my  escort  in  the  ad- 
joining room.  I  was  conversing  with  the  Countess  de  Lesseps, 
when  a  lady  asked  me,  if  I  would  not  permit  her  to  ])resent  to  me 
the  Viscount  de  Laferri(ire,  who  would  escort  me  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  where  there  were  two  vacant  seats.     I  paid  no  attention 


,/ 


AN  AMERICAN  PRINCESS. 


:|i 


fi.  '<: 


1  m 


i 

Ill    , 

'.:    ku 

i    -' 

to  the  name,  and,  before  I  had  time  to  reply,  the  introduction  was 
made,  and  he  offered  me  his  arm.  I  told  him,  that  I  did  not  come 
to  be  seated,  but  to  dance.  "Then  come  with  me,"  he  rci)liLd, 
"and  1  will  get  you  a  partner." 

I  took  his  arm,  hardly  looking  at  him,  or  he  at  me,  until  we  had 
crossed  the  room,  and  I  turned  to  thank  him  ;  when  we  looked  oath 
other  full  in  the  face,  and  both  started  with  surprise.  The  Viscount 
exclaimed  :  "  Did  I  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last  Sunday 
evening,  at  the  Princess  Sulkowska's?  But  how  comes  it,  tliat  a 
royal  Polishwoman,  like  you,  can  stoop  beneath  the  I'russian  flag?" 
(He  thought  I  must  have  been  ])resented  by  the  Prussian  minister.) 
Said  I :  "  I  am  not  from  Poland,  I  came  from  a  land  that  is  free." 
"Ah,"  he  replied,  "that  must  be  a  happy  land."  "Yes,"  said  I, 
"happy  for  others,  but  never  for  me."  "  1  thought,"  he  said,  "  seeing 
you  at  such  a  brilliant  party,  dressed  in  black,  that  you  must  belong  to 
one  of  Poland's  royal  families,  and  were  so  wedded  to  the  thouglu  of 
your  country's  wrongs,  that  you  would  not  cast  off  your  mourning,  even 
for  a  night.  But  tell  me  who  you  are."  Said  I  :  "  I  am  an  American, 
and  a  princess ;  for,  in  my  country,every  man  is  a  sovereign." 

My  answer  displeased  him  ;  for  he  did  not  know,  whether  to  un- 
derstand it,  as  a  sentiment  of  patriotism,  or  as  a  thrust  at  his  own 
government.  He  continued  :  "  I  refused  to  let  the  Princess  intro- 
duce me  to  you  the  other  evening,  because  I  thought,  that  you  were 
one  of  her  compatriots,  who  wanted  to  be  a  martyr  :  your  black  dress 
deceived  me  so."  "  How  extraordinary,"  I  replied,  "  that  the  order  of 
tilings  should  be  reversed  in  me  !  for  it  is  usually  the  woman  herself, 
v.ho  deceivt!s,  and  not  her  dress."  Said  he  :  1  hope  you  have  learned, 
tl.at  from  books,  and  not  from  experience.  At  all  events,  1  was  en- 
tirely deceived  in  you  ;  for  I  was  sure,  that  you  were  a  Polish  lady,  wlio 
had  no  heart  for  anything,  but  her  country."  Said  1 :  "  They  tell 
me  that  I  have  no  heart  at  all.  I  sometimes  believe  it ;  but  I  am  sure 
of  one  thing,  and  Uiat  is,  that  1  have  a  conscience."  (I  did  not  tell  him, 
that  1  knew  this  chiefly  by  its  ^////j/-.)  "  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  you  are  very 
lucky  ;  for  that  is  a  very  rare  thing  in  this  country."  As  we  promenatled 
the  different  rooms,  he  was  surjjrised  to  see  so  many  of  his  friends  salute 
me  ;  as  he  thought  I  was  a  stranger,  and  he  wondered,  that  1  should  be 
CO  well  known,  and  that  he  should  never  have  met  me  before. 

3-Je  led  me  to  a  secluded  part  of  the  palace,  into  a  room,  which 
belonged  to  the  private  suit  of  the  Empress.     We  sat  in  an  alcove, 


ill 


;  introduction  was 
at  I  did  not  come 
nie,"  he  rcitlicd, 


me,  until  we  had 

n  we  looked  each 

e.     The  Visiount 

g  you  last  Sunday 

conies  it,   that  a 

le  Prussian  i\a''?" 

'russian  minister.) 

land  that  is  free." 

"     "  Ye.s,"  said  I, 

"  he  said,  "  seeing 

I'ou  must  belonL'  to    I 

to  the  thouglit  of 

)ur  mourning,  even 

1  am  an  American, 

sovereign." 

)w,  whether  to  un- 

thrust  at  his  own 

the  Princess  intro- 

ght,  that  you  were 

■ :  your  black  dress 

"  that  the  order  uf 

the  woman  herself, 

;  you  have  learned, 

1  events,  I  was  en- 

a  Polish  lady,  who 

;aid  1 :  "  'I'hey  tell 

e  it ;  but  I  am  sure 

(I  did  not  tell  him, 

lied,  "you are  very 

As  we  promenaded 

of  his  friends  salute 

;d,  that  i  should  be 

t  me  before. 

ito  a  room,  which 

e  sat  in  an  alcove, 


VISCOUNT   UE   LAFERRli:RE. 


Tf:TE-A-Ti<;TE, 


129 


and  talked  a  great  part  of  the  evening.  He  told  me,  that  it  was 
the  lust  time  he  I.ad  abandoned  his  ]iost  ;  for  it  was  his  duty,  as  one 
of  tlic  Imperial  chamberlains,  to  remain  in  the  JIall  of  t/ie  Marshals, 
until  their  Majesties  retired.  "  But,"  said  he,  "  I  could  not  resist  the 
teujptation  of  having  a  long  chat  with  you." 

I  was  frank  with  him,  and  open-hearted.  Sometimes  I  would  make 
him  laugh,  and  then  again  it  seemed,  as  if  he  had  to  suppress  his  tears. 
I  wondered  would  1  ever  see  him  again.  I  gave  him  my  address, 
but  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  him  to  call  on  me.  lie  conducted  me  to 
my  carriage,  and  bade  me  a  formal  good-by,  without  even  touching  my 
hand  ;  which  disappointed  me,  for  I  expected  he  would  kiss  it,  as  he 
assisted  me  into  the  carriage. 

When  I  got  home,  I  embraced  my  child  with  rapture,  for  I  felt 
really  happy.  It  was  one  of  the  happiest  evenings  I  had  ever  known. 
Never  had  I  met  a  gentleman  before,  whom  I  had  so  much  admired, 
so  much  respected,  so  much  loved  at  first  sight. 

The  next  day  M.  de  Laferriere  left  his  card  ;  and  the  day  after,  he 
sent  me  a  note,  asking  me,  if  I  had  received  an  invitation  to  Prince 
])0naparte's  ball.  The  day  following  he  called,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment he  was  my  constant  visitor.  He  treated  me  as  he  would  a 
child,  and  always  addressed  me,  as  "  his  dear  child  :  "  "  ma  chcre  en- 
fant.^' All  my  gentlemen  acquaintances  quarrelled  with  me,  on  his 
account,  and  ceased  t6  visit  me  ;  because  Laferriere,  no  matter  how 
long  they  stayed,  would  always  outstay  them,  and  made  himself, 
during  their  visit,  as  disagreeable,  as  he  could.  He  treated  them, 
even  his  intimate  friends,  when  he  met  them  in  my  rooms,  with  a 
cold  and  studied  reserve,  which  they  well  understood  ;  for  it  i)lainly 
showed  them,  that  every  one  of  them  was  one  too  many.  1  was  willing 
to  sacrifice  them  all  for  him  ;  for  I  found  no  pleasure  nor  happiness, 
unless  he  was  near,  or  my  thoughts  were  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXH, 

IN    LOVE. 


One  morning  T.aferritire  brought  me  the  news  of  the  Duke  de 
Morny's  death.  In  three  months  I  had  lost  three  of  my  most  valua- 
ble friends  ;— Mr.  Dayton,  Mrs.  Ross,  and  the  Duke  de  Morny.     But 


6=»= 


130 


THE   DE   MONTALEMBERTS. 


I  became  insensible  to  niisfortiine  from  the  day  I  met  Lafeni^re; 
for  he  seemed  to  rei)lace  everytliing  1  lost.  l-'or  the  moment,  his 
friendship  seemed  sufrtcient  to  wipe  out  the  bitter  rememi)rances  of 
the  past,  to  fill  up  the  present,  and  to  give  me  bright  hopes  for  the 
future. 

It  was  about  this  time,  that  the  Princess  Sulkowska  introduced  nio 
to  the  family  of  the  Count  de  Montalembert.  The  Princess  chai)c- 
roned  me  several  times  to  their  evening  receptions.  There  1  met  a 
society,  that  1  was  totally  unfitted  for  ;  and,  in  order  to  conceal  my 
unfitnesii  there  was  required  on  my  part  a  double  amount  of  ilissiin- 
ulalion  and  tact ;  for  I  was  constantly  put  to  the  test.  A  part  of  the 
time,  1  felt,  as  though  I  were  on  the  wheel ;  for  the  Count  and  Countess 
would  address  to  me  questions  concerning  the  political  constitution 
of  my  country,  which  1  knew  nothing  about  ;  but,  being  too  proud 
to  acknowledge  my  ignorance,  I  was  in  constant  dread  of  having  it 
exposed.  So  that  1  never  descended  their  stairs,  without  saying  to 
myself,  that  certainly  I  was  never  made  for  that. 

With  the  O'Gormans  I  was  perfectly  natural,  and  did  not  try  to 
conceal  how  little  1  knew  ;  therefore  they  jiever  tried  to  enliglilcn 
themselves  by  talking  with  me,  but  would  always  treat  me,  as  though 
T  were  their  child.  With  them  I  felt  perfectly  at  home.  1  soon  fouiul, 
that  I  might  have  spared  myself  iiuich  annoyance,  if  I  had  been 
equally  frank,  from  the  beginning,  with  the  I)e  Montalcmberls  ;  for  I 
soon  learned,  that,  where  true  nobility  reigns,  honesty,  candor,  and 
simplicity  are  always  at  their  ea.se. 

The  Count  de  Montalembert  called  upon  me  several  times  ;  but 
it  hai-ipened,  whenever  he  came,  that  1  was  surrounded  by  some  of 
the  Emperor's  suite.  I  met  him  one  evening  at  a  party,  and  he  told 
me,  that  I  received  a  class  of  people,  who  did  me  very  little  honor, 
and  that,  for  himself,  he  would  not  associate  witii  them.  I  was  too 
much  dazzled  by  the  Hash  of  the  court,  to  be  cai)able  of  ajipreciating 
such  a  man,  as  the  Count  de  Montalembert ;  and  1  frankly  told  him, 
that  I  believed,  that  he  was  jealous,  because  the  Emperor  had  not 
given  him  an  appointment ;  and  therefore  he  opposed  him  ;  but  fh;it, 
if  he  chose  to  snub  the  l'',mi)eror's  adherents  on  that  account,  it  was 
no  reason  why  I  shouUI.  'I'he  answer  amused  him,  and  he  laughed 
heartily  over  it. 

One  morning  Laferriere  did  not  call  at  the  usual  hour,  and 
his  valet  came   with  a  note,   which   told  me,   that  he   was    ill,  and 


I   VISIT    THE   VISCOUNT. 


131 


nut  Lafoniere ; 
he  moment,  his 
moinbranccs  of 
il  liopes  for  the 

introduced  nic 

Princess  cliape- 

There  1  met  a 

to   conceal   my 

loiint  of  dissini- 

A  part  of  the 

mt  and  Countess 

ical    constitution 

being  loo  proud 

ead  of  liaving  it 

ithout  saying  to 

d  did  not  tiy  to 
ied  to  enligiiten 
Lat  me,  as  though 
.*.  I  soon  found, 
J,  if  I  had  been 
.alemberts  ;  for  1 
:sty,  candor,  and 

veral  times  ;  but 
nded  by  some  of 
larty,  and  he  told 
very  little  honor, 
hem.  I  was  too 
e  of  appreciating 
frankly  told  him, 
Kmperor  had  not 
(1  him  ;  but  that, 
It  account,  it  was 
,  and  he  lauglud 

usual  hour,   and 
he  was    ill,  and 


m 


could  not  leave  his  room.  Without  thinking  of  the  impropriety  of 
sucli  an  act,  /  (/ro2>e  off  at  once  to  sec  him.  When  the  servant 
answered  my  ring,  and  I  asked  her  if  the  Viscount  \\as  at  homo,  she 
gave  me  a  reproachful  look,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  :  "  J  low 
dare  you  come  here  and  ask  for  him  ?"  and  then  she  told  me,  that 
Monsieur  the  Viscount  was  out.  As  she  was  about  to  close  the  door 
in  my  face,  I  pushed  my  way  into  the  antechamber,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  prevent  me.  "  I  know  that  he  is  at  home  ;  "  said  1,  "  and 
he  would  do  well  to  teach  you  to  speak  the  truth  ! "  and,  without 
furtlier  ceremony,  1  opened  one  of  the  doors,  which  led  from  the 
antechamber.  It  happened  to  be  the  door  of  the  parlor.  In  defiance 
of  the  remonstrances  of  the  servant,  I  went  in,  took  a  seat,  and 
handed  her  my  card.  But  she  still  insisted,  that  Monsieur  was  out. 
Said  I  :  "  Hand  him  that  card,  unless  you  wish  me  to  go  and  ransack 
the  house  till  I  lind  him  myself." 

The  servant  took  my  card,  and  returned  in  a  few  seconds ;  but 
this  time,  in  a  most  subdued  voice,  she  said  to  me,  that  Monsieur 
would  be  in  in  a  moment ;  and  she  disappeared  as  quickly  as  possi- 
ble. I  did  not  have  to  wait  long  before  the  Viscount  entered,  with  a 
nervous  step  and  troubled  look.  Without  even  saying  *'  Good-day," 
he  came  quickly  towards  me,  and,  raising  both  arms,  exclaimed  : 
"  You  imprudent  child  !  why  did  you  come  here  ?  who  saw  you  come 
in?  who  knows  it?  whom  have  you  in  your  carriage?"  Said  I  :  "I 
came  all  alone.  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  ",Oh,  my  dear  child  !  if  any 
one  knew,  diat  you  called  on  me,  your  reputation  would  be  lost."  I 
burst  out  laughing,  and  said  :  "  I  should  like  to  lose  it  ;  for  it  is  a  very 
bad  one.    But,  what  a  strange  way  you  have  of  receiving  your  friends  ! " 

The  Viscount  became  impatient  and  vexed,  that  I  would  not  ac- 
knowledge at  once  my  fault ;  and  he  took  hold  of  my  arm,  as  though 
he  would  like  to  give  me  a  good  shaking.  "What,"  said  he,  "have 
you  not  been  in  France  long  enrugh,  to  have  learned  something 
about  the  conventionalities  of  society  ?  If  it  were  known,  that  you 
called  on  me  alone,  every  door  in  Paris  would  be  closed  in  your  face. 
How  am  I  to  get  you  out  ?  Suppose  some  one  should  meet  you  on 
the  stairs  ; — and  what  does  my  servant  think  ?  "  And  the  poor  Vis- 
count acted,  as  though  he  were  frightened  out  of  his  wits.  "What  do 
I  care  what  your  servant  thinks  of  me  !  My  opinion  of  her  is,  that 
she  is  a  shrew."  "That  servant,"  said  he,  "has  been  in  my  family 
twenty  years  ;  and  when  servants  remain  so  long,  we  are  but  nominally 


132 


MASTER  AND   SERVANT. 


ii 


their  masters  ;  they  rule  us  to  a  certain  degree."  "  Yes,"  said  I ; 
"  and  1  wouhl  prefer  changing  mine  every  week  to  being  reduced  to 
siu;h  servitude."  "  Ah,  but,  a  trusty  servant,"  rephed  the  Visooimt 
is  a  precious  tiling  ;  and  we  ought  to  liave  consideration  for  them  ; 
tiieir  virtues  entitle  them  to  it.  Hesitles,  it  is  for  our  interest  ;  for 
what  sliould  I  do,  if  1  did  not  Iiave  trusty  persons  to  guard  my 
things  ? "  and  he  threw  a  glance  around  the  room,  which,  for  the 
tirst  time  I  discovered,  was  filled  with  anticjue  ornaments  and  sou- 
venirs. 

"  1  am  thankful,"  said  I,  "  that  1  never  had  any  ancestry,  and  tliereforc 
have  no  heir-looms  to  guard.  Hut  I  would  rather  have  servants,  wiio 
would  carry  off  half  of  my  things,  than  become  the  slave  of  one  of 
these  tnisfy  dames,  whose  very  look  will  make  you  quake,  if  you 
happen  to  jar,  in  the  slightest  degree,  their  ideas  of  propriety."  He 
began  to  laugh  in  spite  of  his  vexation.  "  But,"  said  he,  "  this  ser- 
vant is  none  ot  that  kind,  but  a  most  worthy  person,  wliom  I  greatly 
esteem  ;  and  1  do  not  wish  her  to  have  less  regard  for  me,  than  I 
have  for  her.  I  am  sure,  tiiat  she  must  have  taken  you  to  be  one  of 
the  dcmi-moiuk  ;  for,  what  other  lady  would  ever  call  on  a  gentleman 
alone  in  this  way  ?  How  imprudent  !  how  imprudent  !  You  might 
have  met  some  of  my  family  here.  And  the  woman,  too,  read  \()ur 
name  on  the  card.  How  can  I  account  for  this  ?  "  His  hand  was 
])laced,  all  the  while,  on  the  knob  of  the  door,  just  ready  to  open  it, 
for  me  to  leave. 

He  bade  me  good-by,  and  told  me  I  must  go  ;  for  he  diil  not 
know  what  the  servant  would  think.  Said  1  :  "  I  am  ready  to  go, 
and  am  not  at  all  sorry  I  came ;  for  it  has  relieved  my  rriir.d.  I 
feared  you  might  be  seriously  ill.  I  am  satisfied  with  my  visit,  al- 
though it  was  like  forcing  my  way  through  the  ranks  to  get  to  you. 
But  I  have  seen  you  :  I  am  ha[)py  now,  and  am  ready  to  go."  Said 
he  :  ''  I  will  go  and  tell  the  servant,  that  you  are  an  American  lady  ; 
and  that  it  is  not  against  propriety,  in  America,  for  a  lady  to  visit  a 
gentleman."  "That  would  be  defaming  the  American  ladies  a  little," 
said  I  ;  "but  I  owe  them  a  grudge  :  so  let  us  hit  them  all  a  rap  with 
one  sling.  Go  and  tell  that  prude  in  the  kitchen,  that  all  well-bred 
American  ladies  visit  their  gentlemen  friends  at  their  residences,  when 
they  are  ill." 

He  left  the  room  ;  and  when  he  returned  his  face  was  radiant  wiiV 
smiles.     "  It  is  all  right,  now,"  said  he,  "  and  I  am  delighted  you 


TIIK  VISCOUiVT   AT   IIOMK. 


133 


"  Yes,"  said  I ; 
)c-iiig  reduced  to 
c(l  the  \'is<:()iiiu 
ration  for  tiiem  ; 
iiir  interest ;  for 
IS    to  guard  my 
which,   for  iho 
iments  and  sou- 
try,  and  tlicrefoic 
ve  servants,  who 
,'  shive  of  one  of 
u  c[uake,    if  you 
propriety."      He 
lid  he,  "  this  sor- 
,,  wlioni  I  greatly 
rd  for  me,  than  I 
you  to  be  one  of 
1  on  a  gentleman 
ent  !     You  might 
n,  too,  read  your 
"     His  hand  was 
ready  to  open  it, 

;  for  he  did  iiot 
am  ready  to  go, 
.'d  my  uiir.d.  1 
with  my  visit,  al- 
:s  to  get  to  you. 
.dy  to  go."  Said 
American  lady ; 
a  lady  to  visit  a 
an  ladies  a  little," 
em  all  a  rap  with 
;hat  all  well-bred 
residences,  when 

:  was  radiant  wiiV 
ui  delighted  you 


-■<"- 


came;  for  I  was  thinking  of  you,  and  wanted  to  sjc  you."  He 
begged  me  to  forgive  him  for  having  scolded  me  ;  he  would  sacrifice 
anything  sooner  than  be  the  cause  of  diminishing  in  the  least  the 
esteem  others  had  for  me.  "  Hut,"  said  J,  "  you  know  that  every- 
body al)uses  me."  "  No,  no,"  he  replied  ;  "  it  is  only  the  enviou;;,  who 
abuse  you ;  for  I  know  some  estimable  people,  who  are  very  fond  of 
you.  Hut  I  can  well  understand  now,  hcnv  it  comes  that  you  are 
traduced,  if  you  are  capable  of  such  recklessness  as  this."  "  Non- 
sense," said  1  ;  "  this  is  one  of  the  smallest  things,  I  ever  did,  to 
get  a  bad  name."  Said  he  :  "  You  are  one  of  those  who  are  always 
cahunniating  themselves.  But  1  never  |)ay  compliments  :  so  do  not 
resort  to  that  means,  if  your  motive  is  to  receive  a  compliment  from 
me."  "  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,"  1  said  ;  "  and,  as  for  your  coni- 
j)liments,  the  greatest  one  you  can  pay  me  is,  to  abandon  society  and 
pass  all  your  time  with  me,  as  you  do.  1  do  not  desire  any  greatei 
compliment  from  you." 

He  invited  me  into  his  library.  I  began  at  once  to  look  at  the 
pictures,  that  were  hanging  on  the  wall ;  most  of  which  were  family 
portraits.  1  threw  them  all  a  fugitive  glance,  until  I  came  face  to 
face  with  the  portrait  of  a  lad  of  about  fourteen  summers.  One 
would  have  at  once  taken  it  for  the  portrait  of  Laferriere,  himself 
when  he  was  a  child  ;  so  much  did  the  expression  of  the  eyes  resem- 
ble his  own.  I  looked  at  it  several  moments,  before  I  asked  him,  who 
it  was.  A  sad  smile  passed  over  his  countenance,  as  he  said  to  me  : 
"  How  much  I  love  you  for  having  noticed  the  only  portrait  in  the 
room,  which  is  dear  to  me  !  "  He  was  about  to  continue  ;  but  the  tears 
choked  his  words,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  threw  himself  on 
the  sofa,  and  sobbed  bitterly.  It  was  several  moments  before  he 
could  master  himself  sufficiently  to  continue  ;  when  he  told  me,  that 
it  was  his  grandchild,  who  had  died  a  few  years  before  ;  and  then  he 
showed  me  the  portrait  of  his  granddaughter,  who  had  died  but  a  few 
months  after  him.  The  Viscount  had  never  spoken  to  me  about  him- 
self, and  I  had  never  had  an  opi)ortunity  of  asking  others  about  him  ; 
for,  from  the  moment  he  first  called  on  me,  nearly  all  our  time  had 
been  passed  together.  Nor  did  he  know  the  first  outlines  of  my  his- 
tory. v\.ll  that  we  knew  of  each  other,  was,  that  we  were  perfectly 
happy  in  each  other  s  society.  We  did  not  care  to  know  more. 
A  strange  mysterious  s/mixathy  existed  between  us,  which  neither  of 
us  could  account  for.     After  passing  the  livelong  day  together,  we 


'^.^Mflk 


I       ,     - 


■■      !« 


134 


THE  viscount's  history. 


always  complained  of  the  hours  jxassing  too  (luickly  ;  and  when  we 
bade  each  other  adieu,  we  already  longed  for  the  morning  to  couie, 
that  we  might  see  eacli  other  again. 

From  the  day  I  hrst  met  J.aferriere,  I  became  more  thoughtfully 
serious,  cmd  less  selfish  and  ambitious.  I  could  enjoy  nothing  unless 
he  was  by  my  side ;  and  we  mutually  agreed  to  refuse  all  invitations, 
where  we  were  not  both  invited  ;  for  it  was  too  great  a  sacrifice  to 
make  for  societ}',  to  be  separated  from  each  other,  even  for  a  few 
hours. 

The  Viscount's  family,  with  the  exception  of  his  fiither,  had  always 
adhered  to  the  oUl  order  of  things.  Hut  his  father,  in  his  youth,  had 
joined  the  ranks  of  the  followers  of  the  fust  iS'apoleon,  and  became 
his  Chamberlain.  The  Emperor  conferred  upon  him  the  title  of 
Count.  He  was  a  Manjuis  under  the  IJourbons,  and  could  l)avc 
resumed  that  title  after  the  restoration ;  but  he  always  i)referre<l  the 
title  given  him  by  the  Emperor.  From  the  moment  that  LaferriC'ie's 
father  espoused  the  cause  of  the  J5onapartes,  all  intercourse  between 
him  and  the  other  members  of  his  family  was  liroken  off.  The  \  i-, 
count  himself  had  never  had  any  communication  with  his  father's 
family,  as  he  had  inherited  the  sentiments  of  his  father,  and  had 
always  been  a  strong  sujjporter  of  the  iionapartes. 

The  Viscount  had  graduated  at  the  J-'olytechnic  School  ; — had  en- 
tered the  army,  Am.]  served  f)n  the  general  stalf  in  (Ireecw  When 
he  returned  to  J'rance  he  became  enamored  of  the  only  daughter  of 
the  Marquis  of  Saron,  whom  lie  married,  and  by  whom  he  had  ow. 
daughter,  who  was  now  living,  and  was  the  wife  of  General  the  ('omit 
de  liernis.  The  young  lad,  '  hose  portrait  had  affected  Laferriere  to 
tears,  was  the  only  son  of  tl  e  C'ountess  de  Hernis,  and  the  little  girl 
was  her  only  daugliter.  The  Viscoimt  told  me,  that  during  his  slioit 
military  career  he  luid  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  make  him  tiior 
oughly  convinced,  before  he  was  twenty-three  years  old,  of  the  futihi]i 
of  seeking  happiness  in  sensual  gratification.  He  loved  his  wife  do 
votedly,  and  his  married  life  had  been  a  most  hai)i)y  one,  the  whole 
of  which  he  had  passed  in  the  chf'teau,  which  he  had  inherited  from 
his  ancestors.  He  was  then  member  of  the  Council  Cleneral  of  iiis 
department,  and  had  been  elected,  for  the  past  twelve  years,  cliiof 
iiagistrate  of  his  own  township. 

The  Emperor  Najjoleon  111.  had  written  to  him  twice  during  liis 
married  life,  inviting  him  to  come  and  accept  a  position  at  court ;  bn! 


R^^HI 

.- 

he  hac 

"M 

life,   a 

;j 

provei. 

-:? 

his  wil 
renew( 

the  vo 

1 

foi    hi; 

death 

despai 
"Ai 
^'iscol 
time  1 
make 
Still  1 
when  . 
one  of 
of  my 
frivol  it 
mome 
soled, 
mind 


|H. 


BURIED   LOVES. 


135 


ly  ;  and  wlien  we 
norning  to  couic, 

more  thoughtfully 
oy  nothing  unless 
ISC  all  invitations, 
;rcat  a  sacrifice  to 
ior,  even  for  a  tew 

fatiier,  had  always 
,  in  his  youth,  had 
)lcon,  and  became 

him  the  title  of 
,  and  could  have 
ways  i)rcferre<i  the 
nt  that  Laferrieie's 
tercourse  i^etween 
<en  otif.  The  \'W 
m  with  his  fLithcr's 
is   father,  and  had 

Scliool  ; — had  eii- 
iu  (Ireecc.  When 
l;  only  daughter  of 

whom  in-  had  mie 
Cieneral  the  ("omit 
ected  Laferriere  to 

and  the  little  girl 
at  during  his  short 
to  make  him  thor 
s  old,  of  the  futility 

loved  his  wife  de 
I)l)y  one,  the  whole 
lad  inherited  from 
icil  General  of  his 
;welve  years,  chief 

M  twice  during  liis 
sition  at  court ;  bill 


he  had  strenuously  refused,  as  he  had  no  illusions  in  regard  to  court 
life,  and  then  believed  it  to  be,  what  his  experience  afterwards 
proved,  corrupted  to  the  core.  After  a  lingering  and  painful  illness, 
his  wife  died.  The  Emi)eror  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence,  and 
renewed  his  offer,  which  the  Viscount  again  refused  ;  for  he  had  filled 
the  void,  that  his  wife's  death  had  made  in  his  heart,  by  his  affection 
foi  his  little 'grandson,  Raymond  de  Bernis.  But  the  premature 
death  of  this  promising  youth  again  cast  him  into  the  slough  of 
despair. 

"  As  soon  as  the  Emperor  heard  of  the  death  of  my  child,"  said  the 
Viscount,  "  he  wrote  me  again,  and  iterated  his  offer ;  which  this 
time  I  accepted,  hoping  that  the  distractions  of  a  cou'-t  life  would 
make  me  forget  my  sorrows.  But  they  have  only  aggravated  them. 
Still  1  cannot  resign  myself  to  go  back  to  the  chateau  to  live  ;  for 
when  I  see  the  trees,  which  we  ]">lanted  together,  growing  up,  each 
one  of  them  tells  me  a  tale  of  the  past,  and  speaks  to  me  continually 
of  my  buried  hopes.  I  remained  here  in  Paris  and  mingled  in  its 
frivolities ;  but  my  heart  was  dead  to  everything  around  me,  until  the 
moment  we  met ;  and  that  w^as  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  con- 
soled, since  Raymond  died.  There  is  something  about  you,  that  re- 
minds me  of  my  boy  ;  and  yet  you  are  totally  unlike  in  appear- 
ance. But  you  have  filled  up,  in  a  measure,  the  void,  that  that  dear 
child's  death  made  in  my  heart ;  and  it  is  only  now,  my  child,  that 
you  can  untlerstand  how  much  1  love  you." 

I  wei)t  while  the  Viscount  related  his  heart's  sorrow  to  me  ;  but 
when  I  told  him,  that  I  could  understand  how  deeply  he  suffered,  he 
rejilied  :  "Ah,  no,  my  child,  you  can  never  know  nor  understand  all, 
that  1  have  suffered  ;  for  you  have  never  lost  a  beloved  child." 

"Yes,"  said  i,  weeping  as  though  my  heart  would  break,  "1  lost 
an  infant,  and  I  have  but  oz/c  ncollcction  comiected  with  her,  which, 
Avhenever  I  recall  it,  tears  my  heart  open  anew.  I  can  well  imagine, 
what  your  grief  must  be,  when  you  have  your  heart  fill)  of  many  re., 
inembrances." 

Me  took  my  hand,  and,  for  the  first  time,  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 
and  then  placed  it  on  his  cheeks  until  it  was  bathed  in  his  tears. 
"Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  that  our  hearts  sympathize.  It  was  thus 
tliat  Rayiviond  and  I  used  to  sit  and  converse  for  hours.  When  my 
wife  died,  he  consoled  me.  But  when  he  died,  I  was  left  entirely 
alone,,  and  it  used  to  niake  me  mourn  to  see  how  soon  the  others  for- 


5     ^'if 


136 


I  TELL  MY  STORY. 


got  him."  Then  he  continued  to  tell  me  all  about  his  darling's  little 
ways,  which  wound  liim  so  around  his  heart.  1  thru  told  him,  liow  I 
used  to  sleep  with  my  babe,  and  of  the  feeling  of  loneliness  that 
would  couie  over  me,  after  her  death,  whenever  I  awoke  and,  before 
I  thought,  would  reach  out  my  hand  to  feel  that  little  head.  "  Ah," 
said  he,  "  1  understand  it  well  ;  for  1  have  had  that  feeling  come  over 
me  at  every  stei)  I  took  about  the  chateau." 

He  then  tried  to  console  me,  by  saying  Uiat  I  had  reason  to  be 
happy,  since  ( lod  had  given  me  back  my  child,  "  Ah,  no,"  1  reitlied: 
"  a  thousand  other  children  cau  never  replace  the  chikl,  that  dies." 
"])Ut,"  said  he,  "1  love  you  as  1  loved  my  Raymond;  and  that  is 
saying  much ;  for  never  did  I  love  a  being  on  earth,  as  1  loved  that 
boy." 

A  few  evenings  after  this  visit,  I  opened  my  heart  to  Laferriorc, 
and  told  him  my  history,  naturally  disguising  my  own  defects,  and 
making  out  my  relations  to  be  so  many  hyenas.  The  old  aunt  would 
hardly  have  recognized  herself,  if  she  could  have  seen  how  1  painted 
her  to  Monsieur  de  Laferriere.  He  then  understood  better  my  ])o.si- 
tion  in  Paris  among  the  Americans,  and  told  me,  that  henceforth  f 
should  look  upon  him  as  a  father. 

The  V^iscount  was  blind  to  my  defects,  and  had  unbounded  confi- 
dence in  my  virtue.  He  believed  me  to  be  just  what  I  represented 
myself  to  be  ;  and  I  tried  to  become  worthy  of  his  esteem.  He  was 
always  reserved  with  me  ;  although  iiis  manners  were  tender  and  his 
words  were  always  full  of  fond  devotion.  1  was  timid  with  him.  1 
ceased  from  that  moment  to  i)lay  the  cocjuette  ;  for  1  had  become 
indifferent  to  the  praise  and  admiration  of  any  one  but  himself. 


I  • 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A  GENUtNE  REPUlir^lCAN    IN   SRARCH   OF   A  TITt.E- 

One  day  the  Viscount  proposed,  that  I  should  dine  with  him.  ul 
desired,  that  I  should  invite  some  lady  or  gentleman  to  join  us.  1 
jtroposed,  that  Mr.  Ratscratch  should  be  the  "one  too  many."  The 
Viscount  exclaimed  ;  "Oh,  no  ;  lie  would  be  a  terril)le  bore,  since  he 
can't  speak   Iwench."     Saiil  I  :  "That  is  just  the  reason  to  invite 


dent 
com 
look 
drill 
by  A 
be  m 
but 
iilu 

In 
I  ha( 
ous 
preti 
last 
wliic 
fin; 
senti 
hapi 

I 


.  f 


I   INTI'RPRET   FOR   RATSCRATCII. 


137 


his  darling's  little 
n  told  him,  iiow  I 
of  loneliness  that 
iwokc  and,  bctoio 
Ue  head.      "  Ah," 

feeling  come  (jvcr 

lad  reason  to  be 

h,  no,"  I  replied: 

child,  that  dies." 

lond  ;   and   that  is 

h,  as  1  loved  that 

;art  to  Laferrieic, 
own  defects,  and 
'lie  old  aunt  would 
een  how  I  painted 
)od  belter  my  posi- 
that  henceforth  I 

1  unbounded  confi- 
A'hat  I  represented 
s  esteem.  He  was 
'ere  tender  and  his 
imid  with  him.  1 
for  1  had  bec(jiiic 
t  but  himself. 


A  TITf.E- 

line  with  him.     id  ; 
lan  to  join  us.     1 
I  too  many."     'l"he   • 
riblc  bore,  since  he 
e  reason  to  invite 


him."  I  then  told  the  Viscount  how  desirous  this  gentleman  was  of 
obtaining  the  ribbon,  and  that,  as  the  geritleman  had  promised  me  a 
large  sinn,  if  I  would  get  it  for  him,  1  wished,  that  the  Viscount 
would  aid  me  ;  which  he  promised  to  do. 

One  evening  found  Mr/  Ratscratch  and  myself  seated  at  the  Vis- 
count's table.  The  Viscount  and  I  were  so  full  of  talk,  that  we 
nearly  became  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  Mr.  Ratscratch.  At 
length  the  latter  ventured  to  ask  me  what,  we  were  talking  about, 
that  seemed  so  very  interesting.  I  knew  Mr.  Ratscratch'.s  hobby  :  so 
to  put  liim  in  good  iuunor,  1  told  him,  that  the  Viscount  and  myself 
were  discussing  theAn.erican  war. 

This  immediately  loosened  Mr.  Ratscratch's  tongue.  He  talked  vol- 
ubly, and  begged  me  to  interpret  his  sentiments  to  the  Viscount.  I 
continued  the  former  conversation  with  the  Viscount  for  a  few  mo- 
ments; and  then  turning  to  Mr.  Ratscratch,  I  rattled  off  some  remarks 
on  the  war,  which  1  had  heard  the  Duke  de  Morny  make,  and  which 
delighted  Mr.  Ratscratch  so  much,  that  he  wished  me  to  express  to  the 
Viscount  his  high  appreciation  of  him,  for  taking  so  clear  and  just 
views  of  the  subject. 

I  continued,  as  before,  my  conversation  with  the  Viscount;  when 
I  saw  Mr.  Ratscratch  looking  straight  into  the  Viscount's  face,  evi- 
dently expecting  him  to  make  some  sign  of  acknowledgment  for  the 
compliment  he  had  desired  me  to  pay  him.  I  told  the  Viscount  to 
'Ij  look  at  Mr.  Ratscratch,  take  his  glass,  bow  and  smile,  and  then 
drink  Afr.  Ratscratcii's  health.  As  he  did  so,  the  Viscount  discovered, 
by  Afr.  Ratscratch's  gesture  and  brightened  countenance,  that  I  nuist 
be  making  game  of  him  ;  and  was  seized  with  an  imi)ulse  to  laugh  ; 
but  I  checked  him  just  in  time,  telling  him  that  he  would  ruin  me 
if  he  laughed  then,  as  it  would  be  in  the  wrong  place. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Mr.  Ratscratch  had  said  something  else,  which 
I  had  not  heard ;  and,  as  the  Viscount  at  that  moment  i)Ut  on  a  seri- 
ous look,  the  better  to  control  his  laughter,  Mr.  Ratscratch,  misinter- 
preting it,  anxiously  asked  of  me,  if  the  Viscoimt  disapproved  of  his 
last  remark.  I  then  told  the  Viscount  to  smile,  and  say,  "6>///," 
which  was  about  all  the  French,  that  Mr.  Ratscratch  understood. 
l<'inally  Mr.  Ratscratch  was  satisfied  ;  and  he  began  another  long 
sentence  for  me  to  interpret.  We  kept  it  ui)  for  some  time,  until  I 
hapi)ened  to  have  a  moment's  distraction. 

I  then  got  tilings  so  mixed,  that  I  no  longer  knew  where  I  was, 


138 


THE    Rir.DOX    IS   EARNED. 


PI  i  'i  :  i' 


ff:    !J 


eitliei  with  the  Viscoiiiu  or  with  Mr.  Rnt'-cralch  I  asked  the  Vis- 
count to  ])arcloii  nic,  and  told  Mr.  Katscratcn,  that  1  was  tired  talk- 
ing politics.  The  Viscount  saw,  that  I  had  gotten  into  as  bad  a  prcdic 
anient  witli  Mr.  Ratscratch,  as  1  had  with  himself ;  and  he  lost  all 
control,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  started  from  his  eyes, 

Mr.  Ratscratch  could  not  understand  this  ;  and  he  turned  to  me  again 
for  an  explanation.  I  did  not  have  ready  a  satisfactory  answer ;  sc 
I  pretended  to  get  provoked  with  him  for  giving  me  so  much  trouble  ; 
I  protested,  that  I  wanted  to  eat  my  dinner,  and  not  act  as  interpre- 
ter all  the  evening;  and  I  proposed  to  him  to  defer  the  wor  (piestion 
till  tlie  Viscount  should  have  learned  English  or  he  should  know  a 
little  French.  So  the  (piestion  was  adjourned  that  night ;  but  it  was 
renewed  every  time  we  three  chanced  to  come  together. 

After  Mr.  Ratscratch  had  dined  with  us  several  times  in  this  way, 
the  Viscount  declared,  that  he  had  richly  earned  the  ribbon  ;  and  that 
be  would  do  his  endeavor  to  have  the  name  of  Ratscratch  enrolled 
on  the  list  of  the  Chevaliers  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

I    GO    TO    CHURCH. — A    I'REACUKR    DRAvVS    MV    I'ORTRAIT. 

The  Princess  Sulkowska  was  the  most  devoted  friend  I  had.  She 
was  really  attached  to  me,  and  I  too  was  attached  to  her.  Hut  there 
was  one  thing,  which  I  could  not  endure  with  patience  ;  she  was  over 
seeking  to  make  me  a  convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  No  mat- 
ter where  we  were; — at  the  opera,  at  a  ball,  or  out  for  a  drive, — she 
woultl  always  fuid  an  opportunity  to  say  sometliing  to  me  about  my 
soul  ;  and  her  request  in  varied  keys  and  tones  was  ever  the  same : 
that  I  would  let  my  child  be  bafitized,  and  become  a  Catholic  myself. 

I  would  beg  her  to  let  me  alone,  and  would  cjuote  Rousseau  and 
Voltaire  ;  when  she  would  stop  her  ears  with  her  hands  in  horror.  She 
was  ever  begging  me  to  go  with  her  to  Mass.  One  day  she  insisted, 
and  called  in  the  \'isco\mt  to  aid  her  to  prevail  on  me.  One  look 
from  him  was  worth  a  volume  of  her  entreaties.  I  saw  that  he  wished 
me  to  go  ;  and  1  yielded.  She  took  me  to  a  little  chapel  erected 
on  the  Street  of  St.  Pliilip  du  Roiile.    It  was  dedicated  to  St.  Joseph. 


I. 

an  \\\ 

how 

that 


I   AM   PREACHED   AT. 


139 


I  asked  the  Vis- 
1  was  tired  talk- 
)  as  bad  a  i)i"C(lic 
and  he  lost  all 
es. 

nied  to  me  again 

tory  answer ;  so 

so  much  trouble ; 

ict  as  interprc- 

the  w?r  (inestion 

e  should   know  a 

night ;  but  it  was 

her. 

inies  in  this  way, 
ribbon  ;  and  that 
itscratch  enrolled 
jr. 


^   I'ORTRAIT. 

riend  I  liad.  She 
to  her.  Hut  there 
nee  ;  she  was  over 
lie  faith.  No  mat- 
.  for  a  drive, — she 
g  to  me  about  my 
'as  ever  the  same  : 
a  Catholic  myself, 
ote  Rousseau  and 
ids  in  horrov.  She 
e  day  she  insisted, 
n  me.  One  look 
saw  that  he  wisheci 
:le  chapel  erected 
itcd  to  St.  Joseph. 


A  small,  insignificant-looking  abbe  preached ;  and  the  first  thing 
he  did,  was  to  attack  Voltaire.  I  was  sure,  that  the  Princess  had 
put  him  up  to  it,  and  from  that  moment  I  was  satisfied  that  the  ser- 
mon was  prepared  for  me.  I  listened  attentively,  but  only  with  the 
intention  of  contradicting  whatever  he  might  sa_>  ,  for  I  sneered  at 
the  thought,  that  that  little  abbe  could  convert  me  to  his  views,  or 
teach  me  anything. 

He  began  to  expose  the  reasons,  which  prevented  sinners  from  be- 
lieving. It  was,  he  said,  because  they  were  afraid,  that  religion  would 
restrain  them  in  their  course  of  wickedness.  It  would  be  easy  enough 
to  make  intelligent  and  candid  minds  believe,  if  that  belief  did  not 
enforce  self-denial.  Sometimes  divine  truth  would  flash  upon  unbe- 
lievers, in  spite  of  their  opposition  to  grace  ;  and,  for  an  instant,  they 
would  feel,  that  it  must  be  so ;  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Son  of  God. 
Then  they  would  b'^gin  to  leason,  and  would  throw  into  the  balance 
of  their  fallacious  reasonings,  their  worldly  interests  and  their  sensual 
gratifications;  and,  just  because  it  flattered  their  self-love  not  to  have 
it  so,  they  were  determined  that  it  should  not  be  so, — that  Christ  was 
not  God  ;  and  they  would  return  to  their  infidel  writers,  as  the  dog 
returns  to  his  vomit ;  and  they  would  do  so,  in  order  to  bring  back 
their  incredulity,  which  had  been  swept  away  by  one  breath  of  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

They  would  considt  these  works,  to  quiet  their  consciences  ;  he 
continued ;  for,  when  grace  infuses  its  light  into  a  soul,  conscience 
awakens,  and  it  rec^uires  just  such  poisons,  as  the  mind  distills  from 
authors  like  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  to  put  it  to  sleep  again. 

Thought  I  to  myself:  that  little  rtr/^/^*?  is  drawing  my  jiortrait ;  for 
what  he  had  said  was  exactly  what  had  happened  to  me.  The  Prin- 
cess watched,  to  see  the  eff'ect  of  his  words ;  particularly  when  he  at- 
tacked my  favorite  philosophers.  But  I  would  look  away  from,  the 
spi-aker,  when  his  words  moved  me  most  ;  and  would  affect  the  great- 
est indifterence,  and  even  weariness  ;  which  was  most  disheartening 
to  my  zealous  friend. 

After  the  preacher  had  finished,  the  Princess  said  to  me  :  "  I  am 
Rorry,  that  you  did  not  pay  attention  ;  for  that  priest's  words  would 
'■  . .  c  converted  a  heart  of  stone."  "  Yes."  said  1,  "  he  must  have  been 
an  infidel  himself,  to  know  so  much  about  them.  Tell  me,  Princess, 
liow  often  does  that  little  abbe  come  to  see  you  ?  "  She  assured  me, 
that  she  did  not  know  him,  and  had  never  spoken  a  word  to  him  in 


I40 


GIVING  FOR   god's  SAKE. 


her  life  ;  and,  she  continued  with  a  smile  :  "  Ft  must  have  hit  you  pretty 
hard,  or  you  would  not  have  suspected  such  a.  thing."  Vov  a  moment 
I  was  struck  ;  as  the  thought  flashed  dn-ough  my  mind,  that  the  (iod, 
who  reads  all  hearts,  might  have  inspired  this  man  what  to  say.  ]5iit 
in  another  moment  I  doubtetl  tlie  I'rincess's  woul,  and  felt  sure,  that 
she  ;///ist  have  advised  him. 

When  we  reached  the  church-door,  a  iioor  womaii,  with  an  infant 
in  her  arms,  stretchcv'  out  her  hand  and  asked  me  to  help  her,  for  the 
love  of  (iod.  I  handed  her  a  piece  of  money,  and,  turning  to  the 
Princess,  I  said  ;  "  Dear  Princess,  this  is  my  religion  :  you  will  never 
convert  me  to  any  other."  She  instantly  replied  :  "  That  is  Charity, 
which  is  one  of  the  corner-stones,  on  which  our  religion  rests  ;  but 
there  are  two  others  necessary  to  poise  the  edifice,  which  are  I'aith 
and  Hope  ;  and  those  you  have  not.  You  do  right  to  relieve  the 
poor  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  you  do  wrong  to  neglect  yourself.  If  in 
giving  your  money, — had  it  been  but  a  farthing, — you  had  been  actu- 
ated by  a  spirit  of  J^'aith  and  Hope,  then  you  would  have  done  it  for 
Ciod  ;  and  it  would  have  benefited  yourself  more  than  the  i)oor  creature 
you  have  relieved."  "  15ut,"  said  I,  "  it  gave  me  jileasu  :."  *'  Yes,"  she 
replied,  "  it  gratified  your  generous  nature  ;  therefore  you  have  al- 
ready received  your  reward.  Hut  if  you  had  offered  it  to  God,  to 
l)U;ase  Him,  and  you  had  not  thought  of  yourself,  you  would  have 
performed  an  act  of  Faith,  Ho])e,  and  Charity,  and  you  would  have 
given  like  a  Christian,  and  would  receive  a  Christian's  reward." 

"  Don't-  be  afraid,  Princess,"  said  I ;  "  speak  it  out ;  and  say,  that  I 
gave  just  like  a  Pagan."  "  Yes,"  she  rei)lied  laughing  ;  "  and  that  is 
just  what  you  are,  a  charming  little  American  Pagan." 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  carriage,  a  lady  came  out  of  the 
church,  elegantly  dressed.  I'urning  to  the  beggar,  she  said  :  "  My 
good  woman,  I  have  no  money  with  me  ;"  and,  as  she  pronounced 
those  words,  she  kissed  the  child,  that  the  woman  held  in  her  arms, 
The  poor  face  lighted  up,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she  ex 
claimed  :  "  Oh,  may  Cod  bless  you,  madam."  The  Princess  remarked, 
that  that  lady,  in  kissing  the  beggar's  child,  had  giyen  her  more  than 
I  ;  she  had  done  the  woman's  soul  an  everlasting  good ;  she  had 
helped  her  to  love  mankind.  For  the  charity  of  the  poor  is  to  love 
the  rich. 

"  You  must  not,"  she  continued,  ''confound  liberality  with  Chris 
tian  charity.      The  one  helps  us  to  obtain  the  other  ;  it  is  true.    A 


'» 


COMPELLED  TO   SURRENDER. 


141 


an,  with  an  inHint 

o  help  her,  for  iho 

lul,  turning  to  the 

)n  :  you  will  never 

"  That  is  Charity, 

religion  rests  ;  but    .j 

e,  which  are  l-'aith   vj 

ight  to  relieve  the  || 

;ct  yourself.      If  in 

ran  had  been  aetii- 

(1  have  clone  it  for 

n  the  ])oor  creature 

Lsu   ;."   "Yes,"  she 

efore  you  have  al- 

ered  it  to  (lod,  to 

:lf,  you  would  iiave 

id  you  would  have 

an's  reward." 

)ut ;  and  say,  that  I 

!iing  ;  "and  that  is 

[an." 

y  came  out  of  the 
ir,  she  said  :  "  My 
as  she  pronounced 
1  held  in  her  arms, 
th  tears,  as  she  ex 
Princess  remarked, 
iyen  her  more  than 
g  good ;  she  had 
the  poor  is  to  love 

)erality  with  Ciiris 
her ;  it  is  true.    A 


glass  of  water  is  a  very  small  thing  ;  but,  given  with  charity  in  the 
name  of  Jesus,  it  is  the  price  of  eternal  life." 

Our  conversation  ended  with  the  usual  entreaties  on  her  part,  that 
I  should  have  my  child  baptized  ;  and  with  sharp  remonstrances 
upon  my  neglect  of  so  imi)ortant  a  matter. 

When  1  reached  home,  the  Viscount  was  waiting  for  me  ;  and  his 
first  question  was,  if  the  Princess  had  made  me  set  a  day  for  the  bap- 
tism. "No;"  1  re[)lied,  "but  it  was  hard  to  get  away  from  her." 
■Then  the  Viscount  informed  me,  that  she  had  made  him  promise,  that 
he  would  try  to  influence  me.  "  What !  "  said  I,  "  will  you  too  join 
the  attack  ?"  and  I  tried  to  laugh  it  off;  but,  to  my  surprise,  I  found 
him  as  importunate,  as  his  friend,  save  only  that  he  went  more 
adroitly  to  work.  He  took  the  child  on  his  knee,  and  began  to  caress 
her,  and  asked  her  would  she  like  to  have  him  for  a  godfather. 

The  Viscount  was  a  fervent  believer.  He  had  endowed  monaster- 
ies, had  erected  two  hospitals,  and  had  given  a  large  tract  of  laiid  to 
the  Trappists. 

He  told  me  how  deeply  he  was  interested  in  the  child's  future,  and 
begged  me  to  yield.  I  had  no  more  power  of  resistance,  when  I  saw, 
that  the  Viscount  earnestly  desired  it.  I  was  hcnuued  in,  at  home, 
as  well  as  abroad,  and  I  had  to  surrender  at  discretion. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A   LITTI.K   CONVERT.— TIIK    LITTLE   Ot.D   SHOE. 

In  the  beginning  of  April,  1865,  I  received  a  letter  from  New  York, 
which  decided  me  to  return  to  America.  The  letter  was  from  one  of 
my  friends,  informing  me,  that  an  affair,  in  which  I  had  used  influence 
before  my  departure,  had  been  decided  favorably  ;  and  begging  me  to 
eturn  at  once,  as  he  feared,  the  other  parties  interested  might  cheat 
me.  I  made  immediate  prei)arations  to  leave,  expecting  to  be  absent 
about  two  or  three  months. 

As  soon  as  I  announced  my  intended  departure,  the  Princess  and 
Viscount  gave  me  no  peace,  until  I  named  a  day  for  the  baiilism  of  my 
ciuld.  The  Princess  was  godmother,  the  viscount  godfather.  The 
ceremony  was  i)erformed  in  the  church  of  St  CJermaine  I'Auxerrois. 


142 


A   LIST   OF   NAMES. 


i]  i 


il 


!  iti 


11^  n 


When  the  cerem  ■■  /.la  jvr,  the  Princess  took  from  a  casket  a  !)c;v,i- 
tifiil  child's  necklace  of  ic  ^  oise  and  gold,  whose  pendants  won',  a 
cross  in  the  centre,  and,  on  each  side,  a  linely  wrought  medal  bear- 
ing the  image  of  tlie  Virgin  Mother.  She  made  the  child  put  to  lur 
innt)cent  lips  the  two  medals,  which  l)ore  the  likeness  of  that  mollici, 
under  whose  protection  she  then  placed  her.  She  clasped  tiie  neck- 
lace around  her  neck,  covered  her  face  with  kisses,  and  pressed  hci 
to  her  bosom,  saying  :  "  Ood  bless  you,  sweet  child  ;  may  the  Blessed 
Virgin  always  protect  you  ;  and  we  will  all  pray,  that  your  mother, 
may  soon  learn  to  love  Jesus." 

The  child  was  baptized  by  the  names  of  Marie  Crenevieve  Do- 
mini([ue  l"'erdinaiule  1  -enore.  The  Princess's  fust  name  was  Marie  ;  La- 
ferriere's  name  was  Dominique  ;  Mr.  de  I.esseps  wished  the  child  to  be 
named  after  his  coustn  Ferdinand,  then  at  Sue/,  ;  the  Princess  said,  that 
she  ought  to  be  called  (lenevieve,  after  Uie  patron  saint  of  the  city,  where 
Ciod  had  led  her  to  be  baptized  ;  and  1  wished  her  lo  be  called  Lenore. 
To  satisfy  all  parties,  the  i)riest  gave  her  the  whole  list  of  names. 

About  one  week  before  I  left  Paris,  my  maid  informed  me,  that 
she  feared  the  sea,  and  would  not  accompany  me.  My  child  was 
delicate  ;  I  had  no  experience  in  taking  care  of  her,  having  always 
abandoned  the  entire  charge  of  her  to  a  maid  ;  and  1  dreaded  cross- 
ing the  Atlantic  with  a  strange  one. 

I  took  my  child  in  my  \d[),  and  asked  her  what  1  should  do  with 
baby,  if  Panny,  the  maid,  should  leave  us.  "Do  you  like  Fanny?" 
1  asked.  "  No,"  she  answered  in  her  baby-French  ;  •'  no,  mannna,  I 
don't  like  Fanny ;  I  like  the  Sisters." 

The  thought  struck  me  instantly,  that  I  should  ask  the  Sisters  to 
take  care  of  her  in  my  absence. 

In  less,  than  half  an  hour,  I  was  at  the  convent  door.  The  Sujie- 
rior  told  me,  that  their  institution  could  not  receive  children  ;  but 
that  another  branch  of  it  was  for  education  ;  the  nearest  house  of 
which  was  at  St.  Mande,  a  suburb  of  Paris.  She  advised  me  to  go 
there ;  and  I  drove  there  innnediately. 

At  St.  Mande,  the  Superior  received  me  kindly  and  agrcvjd  to  tiki 
the  child  at  once.  But  she  had  not  seen  die  child,  and  supposed  her 
to  be  nnich  older  than  she  was.  As  soon  as  she  saw  her,  she  was 
taken  aback,  and  exclaimed  :  "Why,  that  is  a  baby  ;  we  don't  take- 
babies  here."  "  But,"  said  I,  "  she  is  two  years  and  a  half  old." 
"We  have  never  taken  a  child  under  five  ;  "  she  answered  ;   "and," 


m 


this  cl 

mont 

keep 

I 

been 
neglec 

\\'h. 
came 
strewi 
down 
alone, 
arose, 
reau. 
back 
shoes, 

I  to 
foot, 
comji 
it :  " 


I  PART   WITH   MY   CHILD. 


143 


a  casket  a  beau, 
ciulants  were,  a 
u;ht  medal  bear- 
child  put  to  licr 
;s  of  that  mother, 
•lasped  t'ne  neck- 
and   pressed  hci 
may  the  lUes^cd 
lat  your  mother, 

e  Genevieve  Do- 
le was  Marie  ;  La- 
led  the  child  to  be 
I'rinoess  said,  that 
I  of  the  city,  where 
be  called  Leiiore. 
list  of  names, 
nformed  me,  that 
[>.  My  child  was 
er,  having  always 
il  1  dreaded  cross- 

I  should  do  with 
you  like  i^'anny  ?" 
1 ;  "no,  mamma,  I 

ask  the  Sisters  to 

door.     The  Supo- 

eive  children ;  Init 

nearest  house  of 

atl vised  nie  to  go 

ind  agreed  to  t  ik4 
and  supposed  her 
:  saw  her,  she  was 
by  ;  we  don't  take 
s  and  a  half  old." 
inswered  ;   "  and," 


she  continued,  taking  another  look  at  the  child,  *'  this  one  does  not 
look  much  over  a  year."  I  blamed  the  maid  for  having  put  on  the 
child  a  dress,  which  she  had  outgr(;wn  ;  and  1  insisted,  that  it  was 
this,  that  made  her  look  so  small.  'Lhe  Superior  laughed,  and  said, 
that  1  might  put  any  dress  on  her,  that  1  chose  ;  1  could  not  make 
anything,  but  a  baby,  out  of  her. 

The  Su|)erior  called  the  child  to  her,  and  seated  her  on  her  knee  ; 
but  the  child  soon  got  u]),  and  stood  on  the  nun's  knee;  and  began 
playfully  to  hide  her  face  in  the  frill  of  the  Sujjcrior's  cap,  and  o 
kiss  her  as  she  did  so.  All  of  a  sudden,  as  though  an  idea  had  j.  .>t 
struck  her,  she  got  down  saying  :  '■'■  Je  I'ais'  cmbrasscr  Ic  petit  Jesus  ;  " 
and  she  began  to  fumble  in  the  skirt  of  the  Sui)erior's  dress  searching 
for  her  beads.  The  Sui)erior  wondered  what  she  could  be  doing. 
Jiut  the  moment  the  child  found  the  crucifix,  she?  caught  it  in  both 
hands,  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  She  then  looked  up  into  the 
Superior's  face  and  laughed  ;  and  then  kissed  the  crucifix  again,  and 


again 


Tile  Viscount  could  hardly  refrain  from  weeping ;  while  the  Supe- 
rior actually  wept,  and  catching  the  child  in  her  arms,  kissed  her 
most  tenderly,  and  pressed  Jier  to  her  heart,  saying :  "  I  will  take 
this  child.  I  will  run  the  risk."  "  It  will  only  be  for  a  coui)le  of 
months,"  I  remarked.  "  Never  mind,"  replied  the  Superior,  "  1  will 
keep  her,  and  take  as  good  care  of  her,  as  I  can,  till  you  return." 

I  felt  worse  on  separating  from  my  child,  than  if  I  had  always 
been  a  devoted  mother  ;  and  I  felt  a  keen  self-reproach  for  having 
neglected  her. 

When  I  entered  my  bedroom,  the  saddest  feeling  imaginable 
came  over  me.  The  room  was  in  perfect  order, — no  playthings 
strewn  about,— and  no  child's  voice.  I  felt  so  desolate,  ti.it  I  sat 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  began  to  weejx  I  was  all 
alone,  and  I  wept  and  sobbed,  until  I  could  weep  no  more.  As  I 
arose,  I  chanced  to  see  something  peeping  out  from  under  the  bu- 
reau. I  made  a  spring  for  it,  as  though  the  child  herself  had  come 
back  to  greet  and  cheer  me.  It  was  one  of  her  little  old  worn-out 
shoes,  of  which  the  child  had  made  a  plaything. 

I  took  it  up,  and  kissed  it  as  tenderly,  as  though  it  were  the  little 
foot,  which  had  worn  it.  I  then  put  it  into  my  jewelry-box,  and 
completely  covered  it  with  my  diamonds  and  pearls,  and  I  said  to 
it :  "You  dear  little  shoe  !  how  happy  you  have  made  ine  I  "     I  uii- 


144 


A   DREAM   COMES    BACK. 


juAh 


covered  it  again,  ami  liegan  to  talk  to  it  as  before.  But  this  time, 
tlic  sight  of  it  made  me  sad,  and  J  recommenced  weeping ;  for  the 
lilllc  shoe  seemed  to  rcproacli  me  for  having  been  faithless  to  the 
vow,  that  1  had  made  to  (iod  on  the  morning  of  my  cliild's  hirth, 
when  I  ])resscd  tlie  first  kiss  on  her  baby  brow.  1  had  promised, 
that  I  would  be  a  good  molht.'r  ;  and  1  felt,  tliat  1  had  kept  the  prom- 
ise but  indititerently. 

I  covered  the  little  shoe  with  kisses,  and  wet  it  with  my  tears  ;  and 
then  put  it  back  among  my  jewels,  and  said  :  "  Stay  there,  little  shoe ; 
and,  whenever  I  look  upon  you,  you  shall  remind  me  of  my  vow  ;  and 
I  will  yet  become  a  good  mother."  I  renewed  my  vow  to  (lod  ;  and  I 
felt  better,  stronger,  happier,  and  more  resigned.  I  must  crave  par- 
don from  some  of  my  readers  for  my  childishness  ;  but  if  it  is  a 
mother,  that  peruses  these  pages,  I  need  ask  no  pardon  ;  for  mothers 
know  how  to  love  little  feet,  and  know,  that  few  things  have  the  power 
to  speak  so  tenderly  to  a  mother's  stricken  heart,  as  a  little  old  shoe. 

I  wept  long  after  I  lay  down  to  sleep  that  night.  Separation  made 
me  feel  with  exaggerated  keenness  my  former  want  of  devotion  to  my 
child.  I  asked  (lod  to  forgive  me  ;  and  1  thanked  Him  for  His  good- 
ness and  mercy ;  especially  for  having  given  me  such  a  friend  as 
Laferriere.  I  repeated  his  name  over  several  times, — for  to  melt 
was  the  sweetest  name  ori  earth, — when,  for  the  first  time,  I  recalled 
the  dream,  that  I  had  had  when  living  in  the  Champs  Klysees.  I  in- 
stantly sprang  out  of  bed  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  wild  with  de- 
light ;  for  I  remembered,  that  I  had  seen  the  name  of  Laferriere  written 
in  a  sort  of  haze,  that  floated  under  the  scroll,  whereon  was  written; 

"You  will  never  marry  S ."     I  was  now  sure,  that  I  should  many 

Laferriere,  for  a  part  of  that  dream  had  come  true ;  and  I  was  aston- 
ished, that  I  had  not  recollected  it  before. 

To  marry  Laferriere  was  all  that  my  heart  or  my  ambition  craved. 
He  had  titles,  wealth,  and  jjosition  ;  and,  even  without  those  advan- 
tages, my  heart  would  have  taken  him,  for  himself  alone.  He  was 
the  embodiment  of  principle  and  honor ;  I  always  felt  the  ascen- 
dency of  his  superior  worth,  and  I  tried  to  resemble  him.  He  hail 
given  me  a  better  opinion  of  the  whole  human  race  ;  and  I  began  to 
believe  in  honesty,  friendshij),  and  truUi,  and  to  love  virtue,  in  prv 
portion  as  my  love  increased  for  him. 

The  next  morning,  before  I  had  tini;ihed  my  toilet,  he  sent  his  valet 
to  inquire  about  my  health,  and  he  addressed  me  the  following  note :- 


# 


BentiJ 


Til 

me  t| 

loveci 
bade  I 


lir  ! 


THE  viscount's  I,ETTER. 


145 


But  this  time, 
wei'ping  ;  for  tlie 
L-n  faillilcss  to  the 
f  my  cliiUl's  Inrtli, 
1  liad  |>i-()nii>i'(!. 
lad  kept  llic  i>iom- 

vith  my  tears  ;  ami 
y  there,  Httle  slice ; 
lie  of  my  vow  ;  and 

o\v  to  (lod  ;  aiull 
1  must  crave  i)ar- 
;ss  ;  but  if  it  is  a 
xrdon  ;  for  mothers 
ngsliave  the  power 
IS  a  little  old  shoe. 
,  Separation  made 
t  of  devotion  to  my 

Him  for  His  good- 
lie  such  a  friend  as 
times, — for  to  me  it 
first  time,  I  recalled 
nips  Klysces.      I  in- 

room,  wild  with  de- 
of  Laferriere  written 
hereon  was  written: 
,  that  I  should  many 
le  ;  and  I  was  aslon- 

:Tiy  ambition  craved 
A'ithout  those  advaii- 
self  alone.  He  \va^ 
^ays  felt  the  asceiv 
mble  him.  He  hal 
ace  ;  and  I  began  to 
>  love  virtue,  in  pro 

oilot,  he  sent  his  valet 
the  following  nolo  :- 


*'  I  hope,  my  dear  child,  that  you  have  jxassed  a  quiet  night,  and 
that  sleep,  the  great  restorer,  has  dissipated  the  bodily  and  mental 
fatigue,  which  yesterday's  journey  must  have  caused  you.  I  thought 
of  you,  when  1  awoke ;  of  the  grief  you  must  feel,  in  no  longer 
seeing  by  your  bedside  the  dear  little  child,  whose  caresses  always 
commenced  the  day  so  hapi)ily.  My  poor  friend,  you  have  indeed 
been  obliged  to  make  a  very  sad  sacrifice,  and  the  certainty  of  having 
acted  with  wisdom  and  rellection,  is  all  that  can  allay  the  bitterness  of 
this  unnatural  seppvation. 

"  For  one  so  young,  your  life  has  been  a  troubled  and  stormy  one  ; 
still,  though  you  have  passed  through  terrible  trials,  your  heart  has 
never  before  been  torn  by  a  grief  like  that  of  yesterday.  You  think 
you  have  little  feeling  ;  but  you  will  find,  my  dear  child,  that  we  can- 
not change  the  laws  of  nature,  and  that  with  woman  the  heart  is 
the  mainspring  of  every  action.  It  is  useless  to  try  to  become  a 
man  in  character  :  you  will  always  remain  a  woman ;  that  is  to  say, 
a  being  to  love  and  be  loved,  agreeable,  nervous,  and  susceptible. 
Nature  is  stronger  than  you ;  you  labor  to  turn  poetry  into  prose ; 
but  you  will  labor  in  vain. 

"As  I  write,  I  cannot  help  comparing  my  happiness,  when  with 
you,  with  the  sadness  of  my  solitude.  My  heart  is  sad,  and  it  is 
chiefly  on  your  account.  To  see  you  depart  alone,  isolated,  so 
young,  without  relations,  without  friends,  troubles  and  torments  me, 
and  adds  a  thousand  fears  to  the  grief  of  the  separation. 

"God  is  good,  my  child.  He  will  watch  over  you,  and  I,  un- 
worthy though  I  am,  will  pray  with  fervor,  that  His  divine  protection 
may  follow  and  guard  you  during  your  voyage. 

"  In  your  moments  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  think  of  me,  my  cher- 
ished child, — of  my  warm  affection  for  you  ;  and  I.  hope  the  remem- 
brance will  inspire  you  with  courage  and  resignation. 

"  I  can  find  no  words  to  tell  how  I  love  you  ;  or  to  express  my 
Bentiments  of  affection,  consideration,  and  confidence. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"Laferriere." 

Two  days  afterwards,  Mr.  de  Lesseps  and  Laferriere  accompanied 

me  to  the  train,  that  was  to  bear  me  away  from  Paris  and  all  that  I 

loved.      De  Lesseps  gave  me  a  few  parting  words  of  advice  ;  then 

bade  me  farewell.     It  was  for  the  last  time  on  earth.      He  returned 

7 


'•i 


I 


I 


J'l  il 


146 


HOMEWARD   HOUND. 


to  Lima,  and  soon  after  died  far  from  his  home  and  his  friends.  As 
L'd[ferri&"e  assisted  me  into  tlic  railway-carriage,  he  said  :  "God  bless 
you,  my  child !  Come  back  again,  as  soon  as  you  can."  I  said,  that 
he  might  be  sure,  that  I  would  ;  "  For,"  said  I,  "  I  leave  with  you  the 
best  part  of  myself— my  child  and  my  heart." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

NEW  YORK.  IN  MOURNING. — LES  MISERAULKS. — LAFERRII^IRk'S  I.EIIERS. 

On  a  bright  morning  in  April,  I  embarked  at  Liverpool,  and  sailed 
for  my  native  city.  After  a  pleasant  voyage,  as  we  anchored  in  Nuw 
York  harbor,  the  passengers  were  all  on  deck  admiring  the  beautiful 
scene.  Every  face  was  beaming  with  gladness  ;  but  I  felt  lonely, 
and  my  heart  remained  unmoved,  amidst  one  of  nature's  most  beau- 
teous prospects.  I  preferred  the  Arch  of  Triumph  to  the  whole  of  it : 
and  while  each  passenger  was  pointing  out  the  view,*  that  pleased  his 
fancy  most,  I  almost  wondered  how  any  one  could  admire,  with  so 
much  enthusiasm,  a  scene  that  lay  so  far  from  the  Seine.  I  was  al- 
ready longing  to  return  to  France  ;  for  I  had  a  presentiment  of  all, 
that  I  should  have  to  suffer,  before  I  should  again  see  its  shores. 

On  landing  we  found  New  York  City  draped  in  mourning,  for  the 
assassination  of  President  Lincoln  ;  and  as  the  carriage  rolled  through 
the  streets  up  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  and  I  looked  at  the  emblems 
of  mourning,  which  hung  from  the  dwellings,  my  heart  grew  sadder 
and  sadder ;  and  I  took  it  as  a  bad  omen  to  find  my  native  city  in 
mourning,  on  my  return. 

After  parting  with  my  friends  on  board  the  stean>er,  I  experienced 
a  feeling  of  isolation,  which  none  but  those,  whose  kindred  have  dis- 
owned them,  can  ever  know.  ,.*•  •  ,   , 

I  remained  at  the  hotel,  but  a  short  tim.e;-  •  As  I  -Ws^alone,  1 
found  it  exceedingly  unpleasant ;  for  a  young  lady  alone  at  a  hotel, 
no  matter  how  retiring  and  modest  her  demeanor  may  be,  becomes 
at  once  the  object  of  special  remark,  and  often  of  suspicion.  At 
eveiy  boarding-house,  at  which  I  applied,  there  was  objection  to 
taking  a  single  lady  alone. 

After  many  fruitless  attempts,  I  succeeded,  through  the  influence 


-  ;„V 


puttuii 
llol 
to  be 
one  t(| 
youn^, 
men 
better! 
much 
justly 
which! 


LONE  WOMEN. 


147 


ifeUK'S  LEITERS. 


ler,  I  experienced 
kindred  have  dis- 


ugh  the  influence 


of  one  of  iny  gentleman  friends,  in  obtaining  board  in  West  Four- 
teenth Street.  I  paid  twice  what  the  acconniiodations  were  wortli,  as 
the  lady  took  me  at  the  risk  of  displeasing  the  rest  of  her  boarders. 

I  set  diligently  to  work  to  arrange  my  affairs,  so  as  to  return  to 
France,  as  quickly  as  possible.  My  illusions,  as  to  tiie  sincerity  of 
olliers  in  having  my  interest  at  heart,  were  soon  dispelled.  I  found 
every  one  disposed  to  swindle  me,  and  to  take  advantage  of  my 
evident  imixitience  to  return  to  France,  by  delaying  payments  due 
to  me,  in  the  hope,  that  I  would  leave  without  waiting  for  them. 
In  order  to  turn  my  vexatious  delays  to  some  advantage,  I  began  to 
study  again  ; — 1  engaged  teachers  and  hiljored  assiduously. 

1  secluded  myself,  as  nuich  as  1  could,  from  the  other  boarders  ; 
but  they  managed  to  make  me  feel  so  uncomfortable,  that  I  was 
always  seeking  to  change  my  lodgings. 

It  was  then,  that  I  began  to  consider  and  to  pity,  the  condition  of 
young  women  alone  and  without  i)rotection.  If  I  had  not  had 
plenty  of  money,  I  know  not  what  would  have  become  of  me.  I 
sincerely  pitied  other  women  with  a  scanty  allowance  ;  for  I  could 
well  understand  how  much  they  must  suffer,  particularly,  if  young  : 
since  their  youth,  which  should  call  forth  the  sympathies  of  their 
own  sex,  seems  only  to  inspire  envy  or  distrust. 

I  have  often  forgot' -n  my  own  troubles,  reflecting  on  the  suffering, 
that  such  a  state  of  u  ngs  must  entail  on  thousands  of  women,  situ- 
ated in  the  world  like  myself,  and  far  more  deserving,  while  far  less 
capable  of  battling  with  such  injustice.  I  begjm  to  conceive  a  great 
dislike  for  a  country,  where,  it  seemed  to  me,  there  was  so  much 
narrow-mindedness,  so  little  real  charity  and  true  sympathy,  among 
women,  for  each  other.  I  longed  to  leave  it,  and  thought  only  of 
f  getting  away,  as  soon  as  I  could,  with  the  determination  of  never 
putting  my  foot  on  its  shores  again. 

I  longed  to  leave  a  country,  where  so  many  of  the  women  seemed 
to  be  pushing  one  into  the  streets,  and  so  many  of  the  men  enticir.g 
one  to  ruin  ;  and  where  so  many  of  the  latter  seem  to  look  upon  a 
young  woman  without  protection,  as  their  legitimate  prey.  These 
men  will  apparently  sympathize  with  us,  and  then  play  upon  our 
better  nature  to  drag  us  to  the  abyss.  Our  happiness  depends  so 
much  on  the  sympathies  of  others,  that,  when  we  see  ourselves  un- 
justly trodden  uijon,  if  we  fmd  not  in  religion  that  strong  arm  of  Faith, 
which  alone  can  sustain  us,  it  is  difficult  for  woman's  heart,  not  to  re- 


148 


MY   MONITORS. 


ir 


ceive  with  gratitude  the  hand,  that  ofifers  sympathy;  and  equally 
hard  for  her  trusting  nature  to  su.si)ect  at  first  the  devilishness,  that 
])romi)ts  it.  Well  is  it,  at  sucli  moments,  for  those,  who  have  learned 
aright  the  lessons  of  God's  word,  to  put  not  their  trust  in  man,  and 
to  seek  sympathy  and  support,  where  alone  it  is  to  be  found — with 
our  Father,  who  is  in  heaven. 

At  the  time  I  am  describing,  I  had  not  yet  learned  this  lesson. 
And  what  was  it  then  that  saved  me  ?  It  was  my  child,  and  T,a- 
ferriere  : — for  Laferriere  was  constantly  writing  to  me.  His  letters 
were  full  of  sympathy  and  encouragement.  He  had  an  exalted 
opinion  of  me  ;  and  I  strove  to  become  worthy  of  it.  And  my 
child  would  ever  come  up  before  me,  whenever  I  saw  that  little  old 
shoe,  in  the  same  way  as  a  Christian  is  reminded  of  his  Lord  by  the 
sight  of  a  crucifix.  That  little  shoe  had  become  the  monitor  of  my 
conscience.  And  when,  to  give  the  last  touches  to  my  toilet,  I 
would  open  the  jewelry-box,  I  was  sure  to  see  it,  and  to  go  out  into 
the  world  fortified  by  my  recollections. 

I  corresponded  regularly  with  Laferriere,  and  found  in  his  letters 
a  sympathy,  a  consolation  and  a  joy,  which  sustained  nie  in  many  a 
dithcult  and  trying  scene.  Although  not  aspiring  tc  the  character 
of  a  littirateur,  the  Viscount  was  a  man  of  refined  and  cultivated 
intellect,  enlivened  by  a  heart  full  of  stro..g  and  noble  sympathies. 
As  those  letters  show  Laferriere  in  his  true  character,  and  explain 
more  fully,  than  any  words  of  mine  could  do,  the  relations,  that  ex- 
isted between  me  and  the  Viscount,  I  feel  tl;at  no  apology  is  neces- 
sary for  inserting  them  here  : 

"Paris,  April i'jth,  1865. 
"MV   DEAR   CHir,D, 

"Ten  days  have  elapsed  since  you  departed,  ten  days  since  I  lost 
you  ;  and,  meanwliile,  my  anxious  thoughts  have  continually  followed 
the  vessel,  which  carried  you  across  the  innnense  ocean,  l^ach  hoiir, 
as  it  increases  the  distance,  which  separates  us,  seems  to  diminish 
the  chance  of  our  ever  meeting  again.  I  have  been  too  happy 
these  few  months  ;  a  ha])piness  so  complete  and  unalloyed  never  re- 
turns twice  in  a  lifetime.  1  fear  I  shall  die  without  ever  beholding 
again  your  much-loved  countenance.  Unless  I  restrain  myself,  I 
shall  write  to  you  every  day  ;  but  I  have  no  wish  to  fatigue  you  with 
a  quantity  of  letter;^;,  which  you  will  have  no  time  to  answer.     1  will 


Ihii-J 
Voij 
yoiil 
thrcj 
swti 
thol 
chil 


THE   SPHERE   OF   WOMAN. 


149 


y ;  and   equally 

evilishness,  that 

'ho  have  learned 

rust  in  man,  and 

be  found — with 

this  lesson. 

y  child,  and  T.a- 
nie.     His  letters 

had  an  exalted 
of  it.  And  my 
i\v  that  little  old 
f  his  Lord  by  the 
le  monitor  of  my 
s  to  my  toilet,  I 
lid  to  go  out  into 

und  in  his  letters 
led  me  in  many  a 
tc  the  character 
txl  and  cultivated 
noble  sympathies, 
icter,  and  explain 
relations,  that  ex- 
»  apology  is  neces- 


Aprii2']th,  1865. 

11  days  since  I  lost 
antinually  followed 
::ean.  I'-ach  lioiir, 
leenis  to  diminish 
;  been  too  hai)i)y 
nalloyetl  never  re- 
)Ut  ever  beholding 

restrain  myself,  I 
:o  fatigue  you  with 

to  aubwer.     1  will 


send  you  news  of  your  dear  child,  every  eight  or  ten  days.  1  will 
go  to  see  her  Saturday,  and  I  will  not  finish  my  letter  till  after  my 
return  from  St.  Mandii. 

"The  first  news  you  learned,  on  your  arrival,  must  have  been,  1 
suppose,  of  the  assassination  of  President  Lincoln.  This  odious 
political  crime  shows  the  violence  of  the  factions,  which  are  rending 
your  country.  I  am  very  anxious  to  hear  from  you,  so  lonely  and 
without  any  direct  protection  in  the  midst  of  the  civil  discord,  which 
is  troubling  America. 

"lie  very  wise  and  prudent,  my  much-loved  child  ;  try  not  to  in- 
volve yourself  in  any  dangerous  political  complications  ;  that  is  a 
hard  and  thankless  task,  which  should  be  left  to  egotistical  and  de- 
signing man.  Poor  women,  even  those  who  think  themselves  the 
most  masculine,  always  have  too  much  heart  and  imagination,  to 
take  any  useful  part  in  party  struggles.  Woman  ought  to  have 
another  aim  in  life.  She  is  made  to  be  the  companion  of  man  ;  the 
cliarm  of  his  life,  his  consolation  in  misfortune,  the  poetry  of  his 
fireside,  the  good  genius  of  his  family. 

**  You,  my  dear  child,  have  all  that  is  necessary  to  form  a  charm- 
ing woman ;  remain  what  God  made  you,  and  do  not  try  to  become 
a  man. 

"  Nothing  new  here  since  your  departure,  excepting  a  tropical  heat. 
I  have  hastened  to  bury  myself  in  solitude,  to  dream  of  you  in  peace, 
and  to  live  over,  moment  by  moment,  the  happy  days  in  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  I  am  longing  to  hear  of  your  safe  arrival,  and  to  learn  your 
plans;  that  is,  if  you  know  them  yourself:  you  are,,  as  a  woman,  a 
little  wanting  in  foresight,  you  leave  by  far  too  many  of  the  events  of 
your  life  to  chance.  You  have,  however,  an  excellent  head,  cajjable 
of  planning  and  managing;  but  you  are  so  excitable  and  easily  mov- 
ed, that  it  wouUl  be  very  difficult  for  you  ever  to  follow  a  marked- 
out  course. 

"  I  imi)lore  you,  my  dear  child,  to  weigh  well  all  your  actions,  to 
think  seriously  of  your  own  future,  and  that  of  dear  little  ( Jenevieve. 
You  yourself  have  suffered  the  most  painful  thing  in  life — poverty — 
you  should  not  expose  your  child  to  the  same  trial.  You  came 
through  the  ordeal  ahnost  miraculously,  without  spoiling  the  niUural 
sweetness  of  your  disjjosition  ;  but  where  you  havo  been  saved,  a 
thou:;and  other  young  girls  have  been  shipw  recked.  Think  of  your 
child,  therefore,  my  friend,  and  I  trust  this  thought  will  make  you 


I    a 


ISO 


THE   CHILD   OF  THE   CONVENT. 


■'I 


always  wise  and  ]irudent.  I  appreciate  you  fully,  I  know  how  much 
goodness,  nobleness,  and  spirit  are  contained  in  your  childlike  heart. 
"You  are  all  a  woman  should  be;  therefore  remain  one,  and  do 
not  wrong  yourself  by  struggling  with  the  world.  If  I  could  only  be 
near  you,  my  cherished  child,  to  guide  and  sustain  you,  it  seems  to 
me,  that  with  my  support,  you  would  pass  through  life  more  smoothly, 
that  your  troubles  would  be  lighter,  and  our  i)leasures  shared  together 
would  possess  a  new  charm.  T.et  us  hope,  that  time  may  bring  about 
this  delightful  dream : — it  is  mine,  and  it  shall  be  the  last,  of  my  life. 
I  am  going  now  to  see  the  Princess  Sulkowska,  to  beg  her  to  go  with 
me  to  St.  Afande." 

"Saturd.vy,  April  zWi. 

"  On  arriving  at  St.  IVfande,  I  found  the  dear  child  in  admirable 
health.  She  was  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  neat,  smiling,  hajipy,  and  in  the 
best  of  humor.  Her  licsh  is  firm,  her  complexion  is  smooth  and 
clear;  I  never  saw  her  look  so  well  in  Paris.  It  is  evident,  that  she 
has  already  improved  physically,  as  well  as  morally.  It  is  fortunate  she 
is  no  longer  under  the  care  of  her  nurse  Fanny.  Tiie  good  Sisters,  in 
■whose  excellent  hands  she  is,  feel  a  true  affection  for  her. 

"  Genevieve  passes  her  life  in  the  gardens,  among  the  flowers  and 
birds.  She  has  about  her  a  thousand  things  to  interest  her,  and  to 
devcloj),  without  fatiguing  her  young  mind.  I  am  delighted  to  be 
able  to  send  you  news,  which  must  rejoice  your  maternal  heart.  l!e 
reassured,  therefore,  my  dear  ehild,  and  rely  upon  your  friends,  and, 
aboi'o  all,  on  wr,  to  guard  the  treasure  you  have  left  in  France." 

"Monday,  April  -ipth. 
"I  am  going  to  spend  the  whole  of  this  day  at  home,  thinking  of 
you.  You  must  by  this  time  have  arrived  in  your  native  country.  I 
am  trying  to  imagine  what  your  impressions  were  on  ..rriving ;  and 
whether  your  stay  in  France  has  not  so  changed  your  ideas,  as  to  make 
those  no  longer  agreeable  to  you,  whose  society  you  formerly  enjoyed. 
"  Paris  is  a  great  enchanter ;  it  turns  all  heads.  When  one  has  led  for 
lome  time  an  easy,  free,  independent  life  here,  it  seems  to  me,  it  must 
be  difficult  to  find  much  i)leasure  elsewhere.  In  this  nn  d -in  Babylon, 
everything  is  to  be  found,  the  most  serious  things  alongside  of  the  most 
frivolous,  true  affection  and  vulgar  gallantry  side  l)y  side.  It  was  in 
Paris  we  first  met ; — I  shall  never  forget  it, — and  this  recollection  will 
niake  the  great  city  forever  dear  to  mc.     It  secuis  to  me,  I  am  once 


% 


I  pn 

have 


i 


A   CHILD   OF    PARIS. 


151 


now  how  much 
childlike^  heart, 
lia  one,  and  do 
I  coidd  only  be 

ou,  it  seems  to 
more  smootlily, 
shared  together 

lay  bring  about 

ast,  of  my  life. 

her  to  go  witli 


more  in  the  '  Salle des  Marcchaux'  at  the  Tuileries  :  suddenly  you  ap- 
pear ; — and  I  love  you.  From  that  moment  my  fate  was  decided  ;  my 
heart,  which  I  believed  dead  and  cold,  became  warm  and  ardent. 
From  that  time,  how  many  happy  hours  have  you  given  me  ;  but,  alas  ! 
how  quickly  they  passed  !  while  the  days  of  separation  seem  eternal. 

"  I  can  no  longer  live  in  Paris  without  you.  I  shall  go,  where,  I 
know  not,  but  changing  from  place  to  place,  never  visiting  again  those 
spots,  where  I  have  seen  you  and  shall  see  you  no  more.  Dear  child, 
without  you  I  have  neither  strength  nor  courage;  and  grief  renders  me 
indilTerent  to  everything. 

"Adieu  for  to-day,  my  dear  child.  I  cease  writing,  but  my  thoughts 
are  with  you.  They  traverse  time  and  space.  You  are  my  one  thought, 
my  fixed  idea,  my  happiness.  You  occupy  the  first  place  in  my  affec- 
tions ;  and  I  love  you  above  everything  and  all. 

"  Your  friend  and  father, 

"  Laferri^re." 

"  Paris,  May  31,  1865. 

"  On  arriving  at  Paris,  your  welcome  letter  was  the  fust  object,  which 
met  my  eyes.  1  read  it  with  feverish  avidity.  God  be  praised  !  You 
have  finally  arrived  in  ^jooJ  health,  and  I  have  in  my  hand  your  writ- 
ten words. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  can  understand  your  feelings  of  sadness  and 
grief  on  reacliing  again  your  native  country  ;  and  I  feel  for  you.  You 
have  experienced  more  unhappiness  than  pleasure  there  ;  you  have 
suffered  grief  and  isolation  at  an  age,  when  the  heart  needs  love.  For 
eighteen  months  you  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  so  different !  In 
France  the  si)irit  of  calculation  is  subservient  to  the  sentiments  of  tlie 
heart,  and  the  pleasures  of  the  mind  ; — one  lives  to  love,  to  try  to  be 
hai)i)y ;  and  business  holds  only  a  secon    iry  ])lace. 

"  Your  warm  nature,  your  rich  faculties,  your  ardent  imagination, 
soon  made  you  a  child  of  Paris.  ]5esides,  you  loved  in  the  great  city, 
and  you  know  the  saying,  that  where  one  loves,  there  is  one's  country  : 
*  Ubi  amor,  ibi  patria." 

"  I  have  just  embraced  your  child,  anr"  ,iy  heart  was  moved,  when 
I  pressed  hei-  to  my  breast.  I  thought  of  you,  my  poor  friend,  who 
have  only  this  treasure  in  the  world,  and  have  been  obliged  to  separ- 
ate from  it.  The  little  one  gets  along  admirably.  She  is  too  young 
to  suffer  from  her  heart ;  at  her  age  happiness  consists  in  being  in  u 


152 


THE  VISCOUNT  AND   THE   CHILD. 


I 


good    natural  condition ;  and,  as  far  as  that  goes,  she  has  nothing 
more  to  desire. 

"  The  good  Sisters  are  very  fond  of  her  ;  she  is  tlie  favorite  child  of 
the  community.  All  women  possess  maternal  instincts,  and  the  g(jGd 
religious  are  mothers  to  little  Genevieve.  You  may  rest  assured, 
that  nowhere  could  she  be  treated  with  more  affection  and  care.  I 
hope  this  will  console  you,  and  be  a  balm  to  your  wounded  heart.  1 
stayed  with  her  a  good  while,  to  observe  her.  She  is  very  fond  of  rhe 
Sisters,  she  embraces  them,  smiles  upon  them,  and  all  this  is  done  so 
naturally,  without  being  urged  by  the  Sisters,  that  it  is  clear  that  they 
treat  her  with  great  kindness. 

"  The  dear  child  has  so  fine  a  nature,  that  she  will  need  a  calm  and 
regulated  education. 

"  Some  dear  friends  of  mine  have  been  in  Paris  for  several  days. 
It  is  very  bad  in  me,  I  know,  but  their  being  here  gives  me  no  i)lt.a- 
sure.  You  are  not  here,  and  every  one  i;lse  wearies  me  . — you  have 
carried  away  my  soul,  you  have  ■'.''•  locd  all  my  powers  of  lovuig, 
and  I  have  none  for  any  other  persca, 

"Laferriere." 

"  Paris,  7««*  i6,  i866. 

"My   VERY    DEAR    ChII.D, 

"  Before  I  tell  you  how  sad  and  discouraged  I  ai.^  I  must  first 
speak  about  your  charming  little  girl.  I  have  just  seen  her,  and 
she  appears  to  be  perfectly  happy  and  contented.  The  poor  little 
thing  knew  me  at  once  ;  she  came  and  embraced  me,  her  first  word 
was — '■Mammal  and  she  looked  anxiously  at  me,  trying  to  read  the 
answi'r  in  my  eye.-.  I  told  her,  that  in  a  little  wliile  you  would 
come  and  see  her,  and  .she  repeated  several  limes  ^  Afamma ;'  hor 
little  childish  face  e-.pressed  so  plainly  her  concern,  that  the  tears 
'.  .ime  into  my  eyes.  I  tried  to  divert  her  attention,  and  took  her 
to  walk  in  the  garden.  She  showed  me  ihe  rabbits,  the  chickens, 
the  ducks  ; — everything  amuses  her.  This  life  in  the  free  country 
.  i;  ^  iU  l.ave  the  best  effect  upon  her  health  and  constitution.  The 
8;;>ters  appear  to  love  her  very  much  ;  she  is  the  i)et  of  every  one, 
and  is  caressed  and  amused  fiom  morning  to  night.  I  asked 
('Cnevieve,  if  she  would  go  away  with  me  :  she  seemed  .seriou'  and 
thoughtful,  looked  at  the  Sisters, — then  without  saying  anytiiing, 
she  took  my  hand  and  repeated  again — '■Mamma  ' — thus  begging  nie 


m 


THE  THIRST   FOR   GOLD. 


153 


he  has  nothing 

favorite  child  of 
ts,  and  the  good 
ay  rest  assured, 
on  and  care.  I 
unded  heart.  I 
very  fond  of  ;i'i« 
this  is  dono  vj 
clear  that  they 

need  a  calm  and 

for  several  days. 
ives  me  no  jika- 
me  . — you  have 
owers  of  loving,     ^i 

Laferriere." 
s,  June  1 6,  1866, 


ai.'  I  must  first 
St  seen  her,  and 
The  poor  little 
le,  her  hrst  word 
rying  to  read  tlie 
wliile  )'ou  would 
'  Mamma  ; '  hor 
rn,  that  the  tears 
in,  and  took  her 
its,  the  chickens, 
the  free  country 
»nstitution.  Tlie 
)et  of  every  one, 
night.  I  asked 
■med  seriou'  and 
saying  anything, 
-thus  begging  me 


to  take  her  to  you.  This  tenderness  of  heart  in  so  young  a  child 
is  very  touching,  and  moved  me  dee[)ly.  She  recalls  to  my  mind  the 
poor  boy  I  lost,  and  who  possessed  the  feeling  and  kindness  of  a 
woman.  To  conclude,  your  child  is  well,  and  well  cared  for.  I  love 
her  as  a  part  of  yourself. 

"  No  one  could  be  more  morose,  than  your  friend.  You  have  car- 
ried away  the  little  youth,  that  was  left  me.  Death  had  taken  away 
my  dearest  ones  ;  so  that  my  heart  is  empty,  worn-out,  and  desolate. 
I  no  longer  love  anything,  and  mankind  irritates  and  disgusts  me.  I 
see  all  the  vices  and  caprices  of  humanity,  and  I  can  no  longer  play 
my  part  among  these  comedians.  The  only  thing,  that  I  desire,  the 
sole  wish  I  form,  is  to  see  you  once  more.  You  are  my  all.  Will 
you  return, — is  the  question  I  ask  myself,  and  which  you  alone  can 
answer.  I  still  retain  hope,  the  last  gift  of  the  unhappy,  ft  often 
aljandons  me,  but  (jenevieve  is  here  and  her  pr«^sence  reassures  me. 
But  time  runs  on  :  at  my  age,  it  goes  rapidly.  You  are  still  young, 
I  am  no  longer  so.  The  years,  which  leave  only  light  traces  on  you, 
make  deep  furrows  on  me. 

"  If  you  do  not  return,  my  child,  if  you  do  not  bring  back  to  me 
your  sweet  smile,  if  I  never  again  hear  your  loved  voice,  which  gave  me 
confidence  in  the  future  and  assuaged  the  bitterness  of  my  thoughts, 
then  it  would  be  best  to  die  ;  for  life  could  give  me  nothing. 

"  Paris  is  troubled  and  disquieted  ;  they  talk  of  war,  and  every- 
body trembles.  The  thirst  for  gold  has  invaded  every  mind  and 
corrupted  all  hearts  ;  and,  instead  of  talking  of  the  interest  uid 
greatness  of  the  country,  we  meet  on  every  side  men  of  business,  who 
tell  you  what  they  fear  to  lose,  and  who  are  ready  to  do  any  mean 
act  to  save  their  money,  I  belong  to  another  ejioch  :  when  I  was 
young.  Frenchmen  had  a  spirit,  that  has  since  been  lost  in  the  halls 
of  the  exchange.  It  is  this  that  reconciles  me  to  growing  old, — 
I  find  modern  tendencies  ignoble.  Money  is  evdything,  and  every- 
thing is  sacrificed  to  it.  Poor  child,  you  live  in  a  country,  whc  •■<; 
this  malady  is  general.  It  comes  to  us  from  the  new  world.  I  pity 
you,  for,  with  your  warm  heart  and  noble  mind,  you  should  live  in 
another  atmosphere. 

"Reply  at  once,  dear  child;  send  me  one  word  to  console  me. 
i  am  very  sad,  very  anxious;  for  1  love  you  more  than  all,  and  I 
send  you  the  most  affectionate  assurance  of  my  undying  attachment. 

"  LArERRliiRt," 

7* 


154 


THE   OLD   WOULD  AND   THE  NEW. 


lii 


"Chateau  dk  Flechkrks,  Dkpartement  de  l'Ain, 
Oct.  8,  iS06. 
"My  dear  Child  : 

"  I  received  your  letter  in  my  solitude  in  the  country  ;  it  was  welcome 
.to  my  old  chateau,  to  which  it  brought  tlie  jjcrfume  of  youth,  sjiirit, 
and  grace.  1  read  over  and  over  again  the  words  traced  by  your 
hand ;  I  meditate  u])on  these  phrases,  which  bring  to  me  from  so  far 
your  thouglits  and  atifectionate  remembrances. 

"You  are  sad,  my  friend  ;  you  do  not  find  the  same  sentiments  and 
ideas  in  your  own  country,  that  you  found  in  France  ;  you  feel,  that 
you  liavr  left  beyond  the  seas  your  c'v^rished  child,  and  a  devoted 
and  r,incere  friend.  Notliing  can  take  the  place  of  true  affection ; 
when  one  has  felt  that,  the  whole  world  could  not  satisfy  the  heart. 
Money,  power,  distinction,  honors  are  only  vanities  more  or  less  false, 
which  leave  the  soul  void  and  discontented. 

"  A  moderate  siiare  of  fortune  is  a  great  advantage.  It  permits  us 
to  follow  ou'-  tast '.  to  please  ourselves,  to  come  and  go,  as  the  fancy 
pleases.  lUit  luxury  is  useless,  and  often  an  embarrassment.  I  can- 
not therefore  understand  the  thirst  for  money,  that  consumes  America. 
It  is  a  disease,  -vhich  strikes  at  the  social  life  of  the  country.  Ameri- 
cans have  cL.ne  away  with  all  social  distinctions ;  they  have  left  only 
one — '•iciics.  Everybody  wishes  to  accpiire  tiiem, — to  rise  above  their 
neiglil  oi  V  It  is  vanity,  and  ever  vanity,  that  governs  the  world ; 
but,  to  speak  frank'v,  our  vanities  in  the  old  world  are  worth  much 
more,  than  the  '.ve  .''  money,  that  rules  your  country.  It  is,  more- 
over, your  opinion  to'j,  my  ch-rished  friend. 

"You  are  i'^ench  in  he,art  and  mind,  and  in  your  charming  gayely. 
I  nev';r  knew  r  single  one  of  my  own  gracious  countrywomen,  who 
hari  more  grace  and  amiability  than  you  You  have,  besides,  the  ad- 
Vi.ntage  of  not  being  imbued  with  their  little  childish  vanity,  and  of 
having  preserved  a  firm  heart  and  a  charitable,  compassionate  soul 
through  painful  trials. 

"  You  have,  I  suppose,  received  my  letter,  written  in  haste  at  Paris, 
in  which  I  told  you  how  well  and  happy  I  found  (Jenevievc.  'J'he 
dear  child  is  as  well  as  possible.  Morally,  the  dear  little  one  has 
gained  a  great  deal  ;  she  is  guod-humored,  ])olite,  and  obedient.  Siie 
used  to  be  (juite  self-willed  and  caj^ricious  ;  all  that  is  gonci : — the 
Sisters  by  their  mildness  and  iiatience  have  effected  a  complete 
change.     You  can  tnen  say,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  great  sacrilico 


SYMPATHY. 


155 


[.NT   DE   L'AiN, 


you  made  in  se])arating  from  your  child  will  not  be  lost.  You  have 
improved  her  health  and  given  an  excellent  turn  to  her  ideas. 

'•  She  spoke  to  nie  of  you.  They  make  her  pray  every  day  for  her 
dear  mother,  so  that  she  may  not  forget  you.  She  remembers  a  lit- 
tle of  the  ])ast,  but  it  does  not  grieve  her ;  she  is  happy  and  loves 
her  little  convent,  wiiere  she  has  found  health  and  a  much  kinder  and 
more  enlightened  guidance  than  Fanny's.  She  is  as  smiling  as  a  lit- 
tle angel,  who  as  yet  has  tasted  none  of  the  bitterness  of  life.  This 
time  of  peace  and  innocence  will  quickly  pass,  and  she  will  be  sub- 
mitted in  her  turn  to  the  trials,  from  which  no  one  escapes.  But, 
thanks  to  her  religious  education,  she  will  have  Christian  resignation 
to  enable  her  to  bear  grief  and  deception.  Happy  those  who  find 
in  their  faith  strength  to  struggle  against  the  storm,  and  patience  to 
support  the  injustice  and  initjuity  of  the  world  ! 

"  I  think  unceasingly  of  your  grief  and  your  ])itiable  loneliness,  in 
the  midst  of  enemies  and  difficulties.  You  have  done  well,  my  dear 
child,  to  confide  to  me  all  your  trouble ;  this  proof  of  affection  only 
increases  the  sentiments  of  tenderness  and  esteem  I  feel  for  yon.  I 
understand  all  the  anguish  of  your  situation,  and  the  grief  you  feel. 

"You,  who  by  the  strength  of  your  character,  and  the  intelligence 
and  breadth  of  your  ideas  are  so  little  of  the  woman,  should  not  allow 
yourself  to  be  cast  down  by  misfortunes,  that  are  not  your  fault. 

"  ^Vhy  am  I  not  near  you  to  sustain  and  console  you  !  You  would 
regain  your  entrgy,  leaning  on  your  friend,  and  would  combat  more 
effectually  the  difficulties  of  your  position. 

"  I  api>reciate  how  hard  it  must  be  to  face  alone  the  wickedness 
of  the  world,  and  to  find  out  how  vicious  men  can  be.  It  is  a  very 
painful  discovery  to  those  who  know  the  goodness,  the  justice,  and 
the  generosity,  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  humaii  heart.  Neverthe- 
less, you  must  not  give  way  to  dejection; — you  must  accept  the 
struggle,  however  painful  it  may  be. 

"At  my  age  nothing  surprises  me,  nothing  astonishes  me.  I  have 
seen  so  much  infiimy  and  horror  in  the  side-scenes  of  the  world,  that 
I  look  on  the  most  horrible  things,  as  the  most  natural.  The  thirst 
for  gold  causes  every  crime,  and  if  one  could  see  by  daylight  the  hid- 
den mysteries  of  mankind,  he  would  blush  to  belong  to  the  human  race. 

"Poor  child,  I  beg  of  you  to  write  ofien  to  me.  A  word  from  you 
is  happiness  to  me  ;  do  not  refuse  me  this  joy.  I  wish  I  ha,d  some- 
thing to  tell  }ou,  that  would  enliven  you  ;  but  I  am  very  sad  in  mind, 


i'll 


1S<5 


THE   DESOLATE   HEARTH. 


I 


.;,r 


1 


alone  in  iry  immense  old  chateau,  filled  with  recollections  of  those  T 
have  loved  and  lost.  For  several  years  I  labored  to  embellish  the 
interior  of  the  i)ark.  All  1  did  had  an  interest  for  me  ;  for  I  was  pre- 
paring it  for  my  two  children.  Now  all  is  ended ;  the  gardens  are 
green,  the  trees  arc  grown  ;  but  the  children  are  no  more  ; — my  iieartli 
is  desolate;  J  am  alone  where  1  have  tasted  all  family  joys.  1  as- 
sure you,  my  dear  friend,  there  are  moments,  when  life  is  very  hard 
for  me  to  endure.  Then  I  think  of  you  ;  and  my  heart  is  wrung  at  the 
thought  of  all  you  have  suffered;  I  admire  your  energy,  your  cour- 
age ; — and  I  endeavor  to  find  in  your  exami)le  the  resignation  I 
ought  to  feel.  You,  my  dear  child,  have  one  advantage,  that  I  have 
long  since  lost, — youth.  You  are  at  the  hai)py  age,  when  one  never 
despairs,  because  the  future  is  before  one  ; — to  nv^  thf  future  bring? 
old  are  and  death.  I  do  not  wish  to  sadden  yoa  by  telling  how 
desol;  to  my  heart  is,  but  I  am  seized  with  despair,  when  I  think 
of  the  length  of  our  separation — of  its  eternity,  i)erhaps  ; — at  my  age 
one  has  sutiiered  so  much,  one  has  experienced  such  bitter  disappoint- 
ments, that  one  has  no  confidence  in  the  future.  One  sole  thought 
can  lessen  my  grief: — it  is,  that  I  did  not  i)revent  you  from  doing 
your  duty;  that  I  showed  Tnyself  a  faithful  friend  in  sacrificing  my 
affection  to  your  interests.  I  have  acted  honorably ;  I  followed 
the  motto  of  my  ancestors:  ^J^ais  ce  (jue  tit  dois,  advicnnc  que 
poiirra.'  * 

"  I  have  grown  twenty  years  older  since  you  left.  I  am  weary  ; 
nothing  anuises  me ;  I  have  fallen  into  apathy  and  indifference. 
An  unexpected  promotion  has  fallen  to  me,  but  it  give:;  me  no  i)le:is- 
ure.  The  Count  de  I'acciochi,  our  First  Chamberlain,  is  cieiul,  and 
the  Emperor  has  ap[)ointed  me  to  re[)lace  him.  I  shall  live  at  the 
Tuileries,  uixl  have  a  daily  duty  to  jierform,  and  also  the  inspection 
of  the  imperial  theatres.  This  new  life  will  ])erhaps  enliven  me ; 
I  have  great  need  of  it,  I  am  discouraged  and  disgusted  with  every- 
thing. My  happiness  was  so  great  beside  you,  that,  since  you  are 
no  longer  here,  my  life  is  wretched. 

"  J  wish,  my  poor  child,  I  could  find  an  unknown  corner,  where  I 
could  live  with  you.  All  the  false  pleasures  of  society,  whose  only 
motives  are  vanity  and  whose  results  are  moral  decay,  have  become 
odious  to  (ne.  I  aspire  co  find  repose  near  you.  I  desire  that  my 
last  days  may  be  consecrated  to  you.  and  may  heal  the  wounds  of 

*  Do  thy  duty,  come  what  may. 


PLEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 


157 


tions  of  those  I 

;^  embellish  the 

;  for  I  was  pre- 

the  gardens  are 

re  ; — my  heartl] 

lily  joys.     1  as- 

ile  is  very  hard 

t  is  wrung  at  the 

;rgy,  your  conr- 

le  resignation  1 

age,  that  I  have 

when  one  never 

1'^  future  brings 

by  teiling  how 

r,  when  I  think 

.ps  ; — at  my  age 

itter  disappoint- 

le  sole  thought 

you  from  doinsj 

I  *^ 

1  sacrificing  my 
)Iy ;  I  followed 
r,    advienne  que 


your  soul,  which  has  been  so  cruelly  tried.  I  think  only  of  you  ; 
and  your  remembrance  is  the  joy  and  the  torment  of  my  life.  I 
make  great  efforts  to  go  tiirough  my  customary  occupations  ;  but 
you  are  always  before  my  eyes,  and  I  cannot  succeed  in  interesting 
myself  in  anything  whatever.  Jt  is  a  ridicidous  weal^ness  at  my  age  ; 
but  you  caused  me  a  happiness  and  a  gayety,  which  1  never  knew 
before,  and  I  cannot  be  consoled  for  your  absence. 

"It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday  that  I  saw  you  sitting  near  a  door 
of  the  drawing-room,  while  the  Princess's  sister  was  singing.  'l"he 
Princess  j^roposed  to  present  me  to  the  young  widow ;  but  1  did  not 
care  about  it  ;  I  thought  you  were  too  young,  for  me  to  become  one 
of  your  admirers.  Afterwards,  I  see  you  at  the  Tuileries  ;  1  am  pre- 
sented to  you,  and  succumb  immediately  to  your  attractions.  I 
loved  you  at  once,  and  since  then  you  have  merited  my  warmest 
affection  in  this  world.  Dear  child,  1  do  not  know  what  the  future 
may  have  in  store  for  us ;  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  ever  have  the 
happiness  of  seeing  you  again  ;  but  whatever  may  be  your  destiny, 
you  will  live  in  my  heart  until  my  latest  breath  ;  you  will  always  be 
my  much-ioved  daughter  ;  for  I  never  met  a  woman,  who  had  more 
endearing  qualities,  than  yourself,  or  a  character  more  symi)a- 
thetic  and  true.  Accept  the  assurance  of  an  atit'ection,  which  will 
only  end  with  my  life. 

"  Laferriiiue." 


t^ 


1 


"  Palace  of  tuk  Tuh-eries,  Paris, 
Nov.  2,  1866. 

"My  very  dear   Child, 

"Your  promised  return  seems  to  me  like  a  dream  ;  it  makes  me 
giddy.  It  is  well  for  nie,  that  I  am  overwh.elmed  with  business ; 
or,  in  my  impatience  to  see  you,  the  time  would  be  insupportably 
long. 

"  Foolish  child,  I  am  grieved  that  you  could  imagine  for  an  instant, 
that  my  feelings  towards  you  could  change.  You  will  find  me,  my 
dear  and  much-loved  child,  just  as  you  left  me,  preferring  you  to 
all,  loving  you  more  than  honors  or  riches,  and  ready  to  forego  any 
pleasure  in  order  to  spend  an  evening  by  your  fireside. 

"You  have,  I  supi)Ose,  received  my  letter,  in  which  I  i)roposed  to 
give  up  my  apartments  to  you ;  1  await  your  reply.  I  am  now  at 
the  Tuileries.     You  may,  if  you  like,  reside  in  my  rooms,  where  you 


158 


A   WILLING   EXILE. 


would  be  in  every  way  better  off,  tlian  at  the  'Hotel  da  Lou/rc,' 
and  at  a  nnich  less  expense.  1  hope  to  receive  another  letter  fioin 
you  ;  if  you  do  not  wish  to  accept  my  apartments,  1  will  fulfil  vour 
conuuission  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre.  You  can  rv^ly  ujion  me,  and  you 
may  rest  assured,  that  you  will  be  well  and  conveniently  lodged,  tl.at 
your  establishment  will  cost  at  least  one-third  less,  than  you  would 
spend  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  and  you  will  be  much  more  pleasantly 
situated.  The  servant,  that  1  shall  ])laceatyour  dis])0.sal,  was  fornKily 
waiting-maid  to  my  wife.  She  is  an  excellent  cook  ;  she  is  mariicd 
to  my  coachman,  who  is  coming  to  pass  the  winter  in  Paris  with  iny 
daughter.  I  have  no  need  of  this  woman,  but  I  retain  her  through 
gratitude,  because  she  took  such  excellent  care  of  my  wife.  She  is 
so  reliable  and  honest,  that  1  am  convinced,  she  will  satisfy  you 
to  the  smallest  particular.  1  hardly  dare  to  write  the  wish  :  '  soon  to 
meet,'  my  dear  child  ;  1  fear  to  give  way  to  the  joy  your  return  causes 
me  ;  it  would  be  so  cruel  to  have  a  glimi)se  of  such  happiness,  and 
then  to  be  plunged  into  grief  by  separation. 

"  Poor  darling,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  you  will  soon  see, 
that  you  will  always  be  my  first  affection  in  this  world. 

*'  Ever  yours, 

"LAFERRlitRE." 


Through  the  ingratitude  of  those,  whom  I  had  befriended,  and  the 
malignity  of  others,  who  hated  to  see  me  on  the  road  to  worldly  suc- 
cess, it  took  me  eighteen  months  to  arrange  my  affairs.  As  soon  as  1 
had  concluded  my  business  in  New  York,  I  hastened,  \i-ilh  all  the 
yearnings  of  a  mother's  and  a  lover's  heart  to  return  to  P'rance. 

I  took  passage  onboard  the  Pereire,  which  sailed  Nov.  lyth,  i866, 
from  New  York  for  Havre.  When  the  ship  moved  from  the  dock,  I 
hoped  that  I  was  bidding  my  country  an  eternal  farewell.  Nothing 
could  have  given  me  more  pain,  at  that  moment,  than  to  imagine 
that  I  should  ever  see  its  shores  again.  ' 


RETURN   TO   FRANCE. 


159 


otcl  da  I.oiivrc/ 
other  letter  from 
I    will  fulfil  your 
poll  me,  and  you 
ntly  lodged,  that 
than  you  would 
more  pleasantly 
sal,  was  formerly 
;  she  is  married 
in  Paris  with  my 
tain  her  through 
ny  wife.     She  is 
will   satisfy  you 
e  wish  :    '  soon  to 
our  return  causes 
h  haiipiness,  and 

'ou  will  soon  see, 
d. 

IFERRIERE." 

friended,  and  the 
d  to  worldly  siic- 
rs.  As  soon  as  I 
tied,  \^-ith  all  the 
to  P'rance. 
Nov.  17th,  1866, 
"rom  the  dock,  I 
ewell.  Nothing 
than  to  imagine 


jjhaptp:r  XXXVII. 

AWAKING     FROM    A    DELUSIVE     DREAM. — SACRIFICED     ON    A     FAMILY 

•.T.TAR. 

When  the  steamer  arrived  at  Havre,  I  found  T^aferri^re's  valet 
waiting  for  me  on  the  dock.  He  handed  me  a  letter,  which  read  as 
follows  : 

"Talace  of  the  Tuileries,  Paris, 
21(11  0/  Novc/iilifr,  1 866. 
"  My  cherished  Child, 

"  When  this  letter  is  in  your  loved  hands,  the  vast  ocean  will  no 
longer  separate  us.     I  can  hardly  believe  in  iny  happiness. 

"  The  court  is  at  Compiegne,  and  I  am  obliged  to  be  there  nearly 
all  the  time.  1  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,  my  child  ;  you  must 
send  a  telegraphic  despatch  to  me,  at  the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  an- 
nouncing the  time,  at  which  you  will  arrive  at  Paris.  If  I  am  in  Paris, 
you  will  find  me  at  the  station  ;  if  I  am  at  Compiegne,  they  will  send 
me  a  telegram  announcing  your  arrival,  and  I  will  set  out  at 
once. 

"  If  1  am  not  at  Paris,  when  you  arrive,  you  will  find  my  carriage 
at  tile  station,  and  a  servant,  who  will  take  charge  of  your  luggage ; 
and  you  can  come  at  once  to  your  rooms,  which  you  will  find  all 
ready  for  you. 

"  Can  you  believe,  that  in  a  few  hours  we  will  be  together  again  ? 
I  cannot ;   it  is  so  great  and  unexpected  a  happiness  ! 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  LAFERRlfeRE." 

I  contrasted  my  return  to  France,  with  my  sad  return  to  my  own 
country ;  and  I  became  more  than  ever  attached  to  France.  The 
Viscount  was  at  the  station,  when  T  arrived  in  Paris.  He  caught  me 
in  his  arms,  as  I  alighted  from  the  train,  drove  me  to  my  new  home, 
and  introduced  me  to  my  servants. 

He  came  early  the  next  morning,  and  oftered  me  his  carriage  to 
drive  to  the  convent,  where  I  found  my  child  alone  in  the  Superior's 
parlor,  playing  with  a  doll.     I  caught  hold  of  her  ;  she  cried  out  ; 


i  "I 


'1^ 


'   \% 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0     IS'tt  IIIIIM 


I.I 


11.25 


1^      I'O 


25 
22 

2.0 


[||_L8 
U    il.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


/^^^ 


# 


c\ 


\ 


^^"^%^\%<^ 
%^...  <# 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14S80 

(716)  872-4503 


i6o 


BRIGHT  PROSPECTS. 


"  Who  is  it,  who  is  it  ?  "     I  told  her  :  "  Mamma  ;  "  then  she  jumped 
up  on  my  lap,  and  covered  my  face  with  kisses. 

I  wanted  to  take  her  home  with  me  ;  but  she  said  she  would  not 
leave  the  good  mother. 

To  avoid  a  scene,  the  Superior  said  she  would  bring  her  to  nie 
the  next  day.  She  brought  her,  but  the  child  liad  not  been  Avith  me 
an  hour,  before  she  began  to  ask  me  to  take  her  back  to  St.  Maude. 
Laferriere  persuaded  me  to  let  her  go,  as  she  would  be  much  better 
taken  care  of  there,  than  she  would  be  with  n>e. 

So  the  next  day  I  took  her  back  to  the  convent.  The  arrange- 
ment did  not  suit  me  ;  but  I  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  the  child  and 
the  advice  of  the  Viscount. 

Laferriere  had  the  distribution  of  the  imperial  boxes  in  all  the  the- 
atres and  opera-houses  of  Paris.  These  were  usually  proscenium 
boxes,  with  drawing-rooms  attached.  We  passed  most  of  our  even- 
ings at  the  theatre  ;  but  if  the  play  did  not  amuse  us,  we  would  re- 
tire and  converse  in  the  drawing-room.  In  that  way  we  passed  tlie 
few  first  weeks  after  my  arrival,  and  those  days  passed  away  without 
a  cloud. 

The  Viscount  introduced  me  to  his  family,  and  his  daughter 
treated  me  like  a  sister.  Every  one  knew  of  Laferriere' s  devotion  to 
me  ;  for  he  never  sought  to  conceal  it,  not  even  from  his  family  ;  and 
I  was  constantly  receiving  congratulations  upon  my  triumphal  re 
turn. 

Madam  O'Gorman  was  among  the  few  who  were  displeased,  and  who 
did  not  congratulate  me  on  my  api)arent  prosi^erity.  It  grieved  her, 
to  see  me  sought  after  only  by  those  who  were  seeking  favors  at  court ; 
and  she  was  sorry,  too,  that  I  should  have  accepted  the  apartments 
formerly  occupied  by  Laferriere.  She  said,  that  it  had  given  the 
Americans  a  chance  to  attack  me,  and  they  were  doing  all  they  could 
to  prejudice  the  new  American  minister.  General  Dix,  against  me ; 
which  was  the  worst  turn  they  could  do  me ;  as  it  would  injure  me 
much,  if  I  were  not  received  at  the  American  Legation.  But  as  soon 
as  she  heard  how  well  I  was  received  by  the  Viscount's  daughter,  she 
became  less  anxious,  and  hoped  that  I  would  soon  become  the  Vis- 
countess de  Laferriere. 

Laferriere  and  myself  had  never  spoken  definitely  in  regard  to  our 
marriage,  although  he  knew,  since  my  return,  that  I  expected  to  be 
his  wife ;  and  he  never  discouraged  me  from  thinking  so,  but  rather 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


i6i 


4\ 


encouraged  it,  by  apparently  concurring  in  all  my  projects  and 
schemes  for  the  future. 

One  evening  he  called  on  me  later  than  usual,  and,  for  the  first 
time  since  my  return,  he  appeared  downcast  and  sad.  He  told  me, 
that  he  had  just  had  a  scene  with  his  daughter ;  that  the  rumor  had 
reached  her,  that  he  intended  to  make  me  his  wife  ;  and  that  some 
Americans  had  embittered  her  against  me.  He  told  me,  that  if  we 
were  married,  it  would  separate  him  from  his  family ;  that  he  would 
be  willing  to  sacrifice,  for  me,  all  of  them  except  his  daughter ;  and 
it  was  only  on  her  account,  that  he  hesitated ;  and  he  asked  me  if  I 
wished  him  to  make  such  a  sacrifice.  His  words  and  look  pierced 
my  heart.  I  loved  him  most  devotedly,  ond  would  have  sacrificed 
all  things  for  him,  .save  his  love  for  me. 

He  had  siii)i)osed,  that  his  age  would  have  prevented  me  from  ever 
becoming  more  attached  to  him,  than  as  to  a  fond  parent  or  to  a 
devoted  frieiul,  on  whom  I  solely  relied  for  sympathy  and  protection. 

My  misfortunes  had  endeared  me  to  him.  He  looked  upon  me,  as 
some  lone  child,  whom  sorrow  had  driven  away,  and  estranged  from 
its  native  land,  but  over  whom  God  had  ever  kept  a  watchful  eye ; 
whose  Providence  had  taken  compassion  on  it,  and  had  brought  it  to 
him,  in  order  that  he  might  solace  and  protect  it.  <• 

It  was  that  very  isolation,  for  which  the  world  reproached  me,  that 
bound  me  to  him  ;  and  his  desire  to  marry  me  was  chiefly,  in  order 
to  give  me  perfect  protection.  He  felt  grateful  too,  to  Providence 
for  having  sent  me  to  him,  because  I  had  filled  the  void  in  his  heart, 
that  the  death  of  his  beloved  child  had  made.  My  disposition  always 
diverted  and  amused  him,  while  my  misfortunes  called  forth  his  most 
heartfelt  symi)athies.  Yet  our  dispositions  were  totally  unlike.  The 
perversities  of  human  nature,  of  which  he  had  only  been  an  observer, 
would  inspire  him  with  misanthropy  and  hate ;  whereas  I,  who  had 
ever  been  their  victim,  was  ever  ready  to  forgive,  excuse,  and  pity. 
He  loved  this  in  me ;  for  he  attributed  it  to  the  noble  impulses  of  a 
generous  heart ;  whereas  it  might  only  have  sprung  from  a  morbid 
insensibility,  and  from  that  exaggerated  self  love,  which  so  absorbed 
my  reason  and  my  senses,  that  it  rendered  me  incapable  of  peering  as 
deeply  as  he  did,  into  the  depths  of  malice.  I  could  oftentimes  only 
laugh  at  and  ridicule  that,  which  would  inspire  in  him  hatred  and  dis- 
gust. 

His  daughter,  v^ho  was  his  only  child,  had  been  an  invalid  from 


1 62 


THE  VISCOUNT'S   DAUGHTER.       % 


i!    If   ' 


;■    If! 


her  earliest  years.  The  Viscount  could  hardly  recollect  of  ever  hav- 
ing  ojiposed  his  daughter's  wishes.  Her  i)hysiciaiis  had  lately  pro- 
nounced, that  one  of  her  lungs  was  entirely  gone  ;  although  she  had 
all  the  a]>pearance  of  health.  Her  physicians  had  recommended  di- 
version and  excitement  to  recreate  her  mind.  I,  who  had  been  licr 
companion  of  pleasure,  and  who  did  not  see  with  the  eyes  of  the 
physician,  could  not  discern  anything  in  her  condition  to  excite  my 
compassion  or  sympathy. 

I  assured  I-aferriere,  that  he  had  killed  all  my  desire  to  marry  him, 
since  I  saw  that  he  did  not  love  me  well  enough  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing for  me ;  and  that  if  he  loved  me,  as  I  loved  him,  he  would 
never  hesitate  a  moment  on  account  of  his  daughter.  He  admitted, 
that  what  I  said  was  true  ;  but  he  implored  me  to  consider  his  years, 
and  then  ask  myself,  if  it  were  possible  for  him  to  love  with  the  ardor 
of  youth.  He  said  to  me,  that,  if  I  could  take  twenty-five  years  off 
hi?  head,  nothing  on  earth  would  prevent  him  making  me  at  once  his 
wife ;  but  that  he  had  reared  and  buried  nearly  all  liis  family,  one 
child  alone  remained ;  and  she  too  had  but  a  short  while  to  live ; 
and  he  felt  it  a  sacred  duty,  to  sacrifice  his  own  inclinations  and  mine 
to  his  daughter's  happiness.  In  my  bitterness  of  soul  I  said  :  "You 
are  sacrificing  our  happiness  to  your  daughtei-'s  selfishness  and  pride." 

I  fancied  that  I  knew  the  chief  objecticn,  that  the  Countess  de 
Bernis  had  to  her  father  marrying  again ;  namely,  that  while  she 
filled  the  place  a^  court,  that  his  wife  would  hold,  she  was  exceed- 
ingly unwilling  to  cede  it  to  any  one. 

He  said  all  he  could  to  restore  my  confidence  in  his  affection,  and 
repeatedly  called  me  his  own  dear  child.  For  the  first  time,  this  ap' 
pellation  of  c/n'/ti  chilled  me,  and  I  begged  him  never  to  call  me  his 
child  again  ;  for  it  was  foo  much  ; — and  yet  it  was  not  enough  /  l^ut  he 
answered  me,  that  I  should  ever  be  his  child,  and  that  he  would  ever 
be  a  father  to  me.  He  oft'ered  to  do  anything,  that  I  asked,  provided 
it  did  not  interfere  with  his  daughter's  happiness,  liut  what  could  he 
give  me,  to  replace  the  illusions,  which  he  had  just  taken  from  nie? 
From  die  moment  I  loved  him,  I  had  lost  my  ambition,  and  all  1  had 
asked  was  his  love  in  return  ;  and  I  foolishly  had  thought,  that  he 
loved  me  with  the  same  ardor,  with  which  1  loved  him. 

For  two  whole  years  I  had  been  living  rn  that  illusion.  It  had  com- 
pletely changed  me.  I  was  no  longer  the  ambitious,  unscrupulous 
vvoman,  that  I  was  before  we  met.     I  began  to  love  virtue,  to  loaths 


JEALOUSY. 


163 


ollect  of  ever  hav- 
ms  had  lately  pro- 
although  she  had 
recommended  di- 
who  had  been  her 
th  the  eyes  of  the 
lition  to  excite  my 

jsire  to  marry  him, 
to  sacrifice  every- 
^ed  him,  he  would 
er.  He  admitted, 
consider  his  years, 
love  with  the  ardor 
enty-five  years  off 
ing  me  at  once  his 
all  his  family,  one 
short  while  to  live ; 
:linations  and  mine 
soul  I  said  :  "  You 
fishness  and  pride." 
t  the  Countess  de 
jly,  that  while  she 
Id,  she  was  exceed- 

n  his  affection,  and 
2  first  time,  this  ap- 
never  to  caU  me  his 
ot  enough  !  l^iit  he 
that  he  would  ever 
It  1  asked,  provided 
liut  what  could  he 
ist  taken  from  nie? 
bition,  and  all  1  had 
ad  thought,  that  he 
him. 

usion.  It  had  com- 
tious,  unscrupulous 
ive  virtue,  to  loathe 


vice,  and  to  hate  deception.  My  love  for  him  had  become  a  purify- 
ing flame,  that  had  cleansed  my  heart ;  and  I  loved  him  too,  for  having 
raised  me  to  a  higher  and  a  purer  life. 

He  told  me,  that  he  believed,  that,  on  account  of  the  difference  of 
our  ages,  we  would  be  happier  to  remain  as  we  were  ;  and  it  was  only 
on  account  of  the  world  and  my  isolation,  that  he  ever  wished  to 
marry  me  ;  that  he  loved  me,  as  he  would  some  fond  child,  whom 
Providence  had  sent  to  him,  to  bring  back  to  his  seared  heart  the  fresh- 
nesB  of  happier  years. 

When  he  uttered  these  words,  it  seemed  as  though  my  heart's 
most  cherished  idol  had  changed  suddenly  before  my  eyes  into  a  heart- 
less, icy  skeleton.  I  hated  him  in  that  moment,  and  would  not  have 
married  him  for  worlds.  And  yet,  a  moment  after,  I  would  have 
crawled  at  his  feet,  and  have  become  his  slave,  his  household  drudge, 
if  he  could  have  only  given  me  back  my  illusions  ;  and  I  would  have 
felt  happier  to  be  with  him,  in  sujji  a  state,  believing  that  he  loved  me, 
than  I  would  to  have  become  \\\z  bride,  when  -I  knew  that  he  only 
loved  me  as  his  child. 

It  is  only  sensitive,  and  impassioned  hearts,  that  have  loved,  that 
can  understand  my  feelings ;  for  they  know,  that  love  can  only  be 
satisfied  with  love.  Offer  it  the  whole  world,  in  exchange  for  the 
heart,  which  it  believes  to  be  united  and  blended  with  its  own,  and 
the  whole  universe  will  appear  worthless,  comjjared  to  the  priceless 
value  it  sets  upon  that  heart.  There  is  nothing  holier  in  nature,  than 
a  parent's  love.  But  the  parent  robs  nothing  from  his  child,  when  he 
loves  another.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  the  demon  jealousy  en- 
tered my  heart,  and  I  feared  that,  if  he  only  loved  me  as  his  child,  his 
heart  was  still  free,  and  he  could  love  another.  I  thought,  that  per- 
liaps  he  did  not  love  me,  because  of  his  love  for  his  wife,  who  was  in 
the  grave.  For  an  instant,  a  sort  of  frenzy  took  possession  of  me, 
and  I  imogined,  that  he  loved  everything  else  but  me,  and  only  loved 
me,  because  I  consoled  him  for  the  absence  of  those  whom  he  loved. 
I  became  jealous  of  the  memory  of  his  child,  of  his  departed  wife, 
and  even  of  my  own  misfortunes ;  for  I  looked  upon  them  all  as  so 
many  rivals,  whom  he  preferred  to  me.  My  heart  was  so  rent  with 
agony,  that  it  distorted  my  whole  body,  and  I  writhed  in  excruciating 
pain. 

He  was  the  first  and  only  being,  that  I  had  ever  really  loved.     In 
my  childhood  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  nature,  while  rambling  alone 


i    i-^i 


■i    'i 


)'    I  l| 


164 


A  DREAM  OF  ILL   OMEN. 


over  the  hills  of  Amenia.  But  my  gviilty  conscience  soon  divorced 
us  ;  and  since  that  time  until  I  met  Laferriere,  it  seemed  as  though 
my  heart  had  fed  on  what  was  most  uncongenial  to  it. 

Others  had  thought,  that  they  had  won  my  heart  ;  but  when  I 
really  loved,  1  could  not  find  courage  to  express  my  love.  It  was  that 
want  of  courage,  which  had  deceived  Laferridre,  as  to  the  ardor  and 
depth  of  my  attachment.  It  was  ever  my  great  defect  to  be  too 
frank  and  too  confiding ;  and  this  was  the  last  passion  in  my  heart 
that  Laferriere  thought  I  would  have  been  able  to  conceal.  • 

When  he  left  me  that  night,  and  I  was  once  more  alone,  I  felt  like 
one  who  was  forever  wedded  to  sorrow  ; — for  it  appeared  to  me,  that 
1  could  never  recover  from  this  last  blow,  which  seemed  the  most 
cruel,  that  God  ever  dealt  me. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep.  I  wept  and  sobbed  for  hours  ;  but, 
in  one  of  the  darkest  moments  of  despair,  that  I  had  ever  known,  I 
remembered  the  dream  I  had  had  in«l:he  Champs  Elysees,  on  which  I 
had  so  strongly  built  my  hopes,  that  I  would  be  his  wife.  It  came 
back  to  me,  like  a  ray  of  hope.  1  began  to  be  consoled,  and  to  believe, 
that  he  really  loved  me.  I  reproached  myself  for  having  doubted  | 
him,  and  for  having  been  so  violent ;  and  I  longed  to  see  him,  that  I 
might  ask  his  forgiveness.  I  recalled  with  delight  the  happy  moments 
we  had  passed  together,  and  the  many  times  he  had  told  me,  that  he 
loved  me.  I  thought  of  his  letters  too,  and  then  I  was  sure,  that  all 
would  yet  be  well ; — that  I  would  one  day  be  his  wife.  For  had  I 
not  seen  his  name  in  my  dream  long  before  we  ever  met  ? 

I  prayed  God  to  give  me  another  true  dream,  that  night,  and 
begged  Him  to  let  me  know  in  it  if  I  was  really  destined  to  marry 
Laferriere.  It  was  nearly  morning  before  I  closed  my  eyes,  and, 
when  I  did  sleep,  it  was  not  with  the  sleep  of  peace,  which  refreshes. 
My  rest  was  broken  by  a  dream  of  ill  omen.     I   dreamt,   that  the 

very  same  gypsy,  who  had  told  me,  that  I  would  never  marry  S , 

ajipeared,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  jjlacard,  on  which  was  written  dis- 
tinctly :    You  7uill  never  marry  Laferriere.  .      ' 

As  I  saw  these  words,  I  awoke,  and  became  very  sad.  I  tried  tc 
console  myself  by  remembering  the  old  adage,  and  taking  hope,  that 
it  was  a  true  one  ; — that  dreams  always  go  by  contraries  ;  just  as  I 
bad  done  before  in  the  Champ:^^  Elys^cs. 


^> 


I  DISPENSE  FAVORS. 


165 


:i*ence  soon  divorced 
t  seemed  as  though 

to  it. 

heart  ;  but  when  I 
ny  love.  It  was  that 
as  to  the  ardor  and 
at  defect  to  be  too 
passion  in  my  heart 

0  conceal.  « 
ore  alone,  I  felt  like 
appeared  to  me,  that 
:h  seemed  the  most 

)bed  for  hours  ;  but, 

1  had  ever  known,  I 
J  Elysees,  on  which  I 

his  wife.  It  came 
ioled,  and  to  believe, 

for  having  doubted 
ed  to  see  him,  that  I 
:  the  happy  moments 
lad  told  nie,  that  he 
1  I  was  sure,  that  all 
is  wife.  For  had  I 
^ver  met  ? 

am,  that  night,  and 
y  destined  to  marry 
ilosed  my  eyes,  and, 
ice,  which  refreshes. 

I  dreamt,   that  the 

never  marry  S , 

lich  was  written  dis- 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

VANITY   OF   VANITIES,    AND   VEXATION   OF   SPIRIT. 

The  following  dav,  when  Laferrigre  called  on  me,  I  could  see,  from 
the  painful  expression  of  his  countenance,  that  he  was  suffering  men  * 
tally,  just  as  much  as  I.  When  I  told  him  again  how  unhappy  I  was, 
that  he  did  not  love  me  as  much  as  I  did  him,  he  earnestly  assured 
me,  that  he  considered  his  love  for  me  far  more  lasting  and  less  liable 
to  change,  than  mine.  He  mentioned  the  qualities  of  my  heart,  on 
which  his  love  and  attachment  were  founded,  remarking  that  there 
was  too  much  passion  and  imagination  mixed  up  in  my  affection  for 
him. 

I  asked  him,  how  I  should  hold  up  my  head,  when  the  world  would 
congratulate  me  upon  my  future  nuptials,  as  it  had  often  done. 

He  replied :  "  So  long  as  I  live,  you  need  not  fear  the  world  ;  for 
I  will  bring  it  to  your  feet ;  and  when  it  is  there,  you  will  see  how 
hollow  and  worthless  it  is  :  and  1  am  sure  you  will  toss  it  from  you, 
as  you  would  an  old  programme  of  a  play." 

From  that  hour,  it  seemed  to  be  Laferridre's  constant  study  to  make 
me  happy.  He  showered  everything  upon  me,  that  it  was  in  his 
power  to  bestow.  He  never  refused  any  favor,  that  I  asked  him  to 
confer  on  my  friends  or  acquaintances,  that  was  consistent  with  his 
duty.  And  whenever  a  poor  wretch  appealed  to  me  for  assistance,  I 
had  only  to  recommend  him  to  the  Viscount,  and  he  was  sure  to  ob- 
tain relief. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known,  that  I  had  so  many  privileges,  those 
who  had  sought  by  every  means  to  pull  me  down,  were  among  the 
first  to  throw  down  their  scalping-knives,  and  to  pay  court  to  me  and 
besiege  me  for  favors.  I  tried  to  oblige  everybody ;  but  with  those, 
who  I  knew,  hated  me,  and  were  obsequious  only  to  use  me,  1  would 
never  associate ;  and  while  giving  them  whatever  they  asked,  I  would 
never  permit  them  to  express  their  thanks  in  person,  if  I  could  avoid 
them.  I  would  at  times  have  contentions  with  Laferrifire  for  giving 
the  preference  to  the  poor  over  the  rich. 

Sometimes  I  obtained  invitations  to  a  court  ball  for  educated  and 
refined  ladies,  who  were  too  poor  to  buy  a  decent  court  dress  •  and  I 


i66 


ENEMIES    AND    BEGGARS. 


'k! 


i 


would  have  to  dress  them  up  in  my  own  clothes,  so  that  they  could 
appear.  These  things  would  irritate  Laferriere,  for  he  never  knew, 
he  said,  how  far  I  might  go.  He  once  said,  that  he  feared,  that  I 
would  have  people  received  at  the  Tuileries  in  the  evening,  whom 
the  Empress  would  find  the  next  morning  domiciled  in  the  Charity 
Hospital. 

At  last  he  despaired  of  making  me  reform  in  this  respect ;  and 
once  he  asked  my  forgiveness,  after  having  given  me  a  reproof,  and 
acknowledg<Kl,  that  he  was  blaming  me  for  the  very  faults,  that  en- 
deared me  to  him.  He  knew  me  so  well,  that,  if  I  recommended  one 
person  more  urgently  than  another,  and  appeared  particularly  anx- 
ious, he  would  remark  :  "  I  am  sure  it  is  an  enemy  or  a  beggar." 

I  knew  some  correspondents  of  journals ;  among  whom  were  some 
ladies,  who  had  families  to  support.  Most  of  them  had  been  slander- 
ing nie  both  with  tongue  and  pen.  Laferri»^re  had  conceived  an  in- 
tense dislike  for  them,  and  implored  me  to  l.ave  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  But  their  malice  did  not  lessen  my  compassion.  I  once 
made  I.aferridre  laugh  by  saying,  when  he  was  pressing  me  hard,  tiiat 
I  pitied  their  poverty  so  much,  that  I  was  deliglited,  that  they  could 
make  a  little  money  by  abusing  me ;  even  though  it  were  in  order  to 
gratify  the  malice  of  those,  whose  favors  they  sought. 

In  less  than  three  months,  I  became  so  cloyed  with  pleasure  and 
amusements,  that  I  could  no  longer  enjoy  anything.  I  tried  to  con- 
ceal my  weariness,  and  to  appear  perfectly  contented  and  hapi)y ; 
but  Laferriere  would  s«metimes  luiexiiectcdly  join  me  at  the  theatre, 
and  find  me  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  box  weeping,  while  those,  who 
accompanied  me,  were  merrily  enjoying  the  i)lay. 

Sometimes  at  a  ball,  while  surfeited  with  the  insipid  compliments  and 
obsequious  attentions  of  those,  who  had  formerly  never  noticed  me, 
and  now  only  sought  me  for  my  influence,  I  would  be  wounded  to  the 
quick  to  see  my  old  and  true  friends  stand  off  and  avoid  me  ;  and,  on 
returning  home,  I  would  be  seized  with  such  a  moral  nausea,  that  the 
moment  1  entered  my  room,  I  would  throw  myself  on  the  bed,  in  all 
my  finery,  and  would  tear  the  jewels  from  off  my  neck  and  arms,  and 
throw  them  across  the  room.  The  maid  would  sometimes  remain 
beside  me,  until  the  day  dawned,  trying  to  console  me  ;  and  I  have 
felt  her  tears  fall  on  my  neck  and  arms,  as  slie  would  lean  over  to 
unlace  my  dress. 

In  such  moments,  when  I  became  sufficiently  calm  to  reflect,  I 


AN   UNWELCOME   VISIT. 


167 


calm  to  reflect,  I 


looked  back  with  regret  to  the  clays,  when  I  used  to  be  called  "Tick," 
and  used  to  pass  long  hours,  on  the  curbstones  swimming  my  shoes 
in  tlie  gutter,  or  roaming  bareheaded  through  the  alleys,  building 
castles  in  the  air.  I  found,  that  1  was  happier  building  them,  than  I 
was  living  in  them. 

My  weariness  grew  to  such  a  pitch,  thac  my  health  began  once 
more  to  give  way.  It  required  a  stronger  constitution,  than  mine,  to 
resist  such  a  constant  strain  of  nervous  excitement,  and  I  began  to 
loathe  and  hate  that  Hash  of  worldly  pomp  and  show,  which  for- 
merly I  had  so  much  coveted ;  for  I  found  it  to  be  but  gilded  misery. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  trying  to  persuade  Laferriere  to  consent  to 
let  me  leave  Paris  for  a  short  while,  my  valet  brought  me  a  letter 
from  my  brother-in-law.  He  wrote,  that  my  sister  was  about  to  make 
a  visit  to  the  Holy  Jiand,  and  would  like  to  remain  a  few  weeks  in 
Paris  ;  and  he  asked  me,  whether  she  could  remain  with  me.  My 
mind  was  thoroughly  made  up  to  leave  Paris,  and  it  went  hard  with 
me  to  remain  just  to  oblige  a  sister,  who  had,  I  thought,  but  slender 
claimsvupon  my  gratitude.  I  consulted  the  Viscount ;  who  said  : 
"  If  she  has  not  behaved  like  a  sister  to  you,  your  duty  is  to  set  her 
an  example,  to  show  her  how  one  sister  should  behave  towards  an- 
other." I  remarked,  that  my  sister  was  rich,  andWould  not  even  re- 
main with  me,  unless  she  should  be  permitted  to  share  my  expenses, 
and  that  I  could  not  see  that  she  needed  me  sufficiently  to  require 
me  to  make  ?uch  0  sacritice. 

Said  the  Viscount  :  "  What  remuneration  could  she  give  you,  for 
the  advantages,  thav  your  position  can  give  her?  She  abandoned  you 
in  adversity  ?  Well  she  is  only  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  she  will 
not  refuse  to  live  witii  )ou  in  prosperity." 

1  soon  repented  of  having  spoken   so  severely  of  my  sister.     My 
conscience  reproached  me,  and,  to   quiet  it,  I  said,  that  if  she  hadv 
treated  mo  harshly,  it  was  because  she  believed,  that  my  life  was  not 
as  blameless  as  it  should  be  ;  that  I  never  gave  her  my  confidence,    " 
and  we  had  seen  each  other  but  very  little,  since  the  time  I  left  hei»-~' 
in  the  Bowery ;   that,  in  fact,  I  was  quite  like  a  stranger  to  her. 

"Well,"  replied  the  Viscount,  "if  she  knows  none  of  the  particu- 
lars of  your  miraculous  escape  from  poverty,  1  do  not  see  why  she 
should  have  a  better  opinion  of  you  now,  than  she  had  then.  My 
dear  child,"  he  added,  "you  will  find  out,  that  the  world  will  be  indul- 
gent to  our  faults,  the  moment  it  finds  it  to  its  interest  to  be  so. 


4 

«.'■■■      *  »r 


I68 


THE   WAYS   OF   THE   WOULD. 


Your  experience  this  winter  ought  to  convince  you  of  the  truth  of 
my  words.  Mankind  does  not  honor  us  for  our  virtues  :  it  is  only 
,God  who  loves  us  and  rewards  us  for  these.  Men  prefer  our  vices, 
when  they  prove  successful,  to  our  virtues,  when  they  entail  upon  us 
obscurity  and  want.  I  will  give  you  another  winter  in  Paris,  to  be- 
come as  great  a  misanthrope  as  myself.  I  try  to  live  up  to  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  gospel ;  but  don't  suspect  for  an  instant,  that  I  seek  to 
benefit  others  from  any  other  motive  ;  for  I  have  a  horror  of  the 
human  race.  There  are  not  half  a  dozen  people  among  all  your  ac- 
quaintances, who  seek  you  for  yourself,  and  esteem  you  for  your 
virtues,  or  who  believe,  that  you  have  any." 

I  laughed  as  I  said  :  "  You  say  all  this,  for  fear,  that  I  may  fall  in 
love  with  somebody  else." 

"  But  it  is  true,"  he  replied  seriously.  **  I  think  you  have  too  much 
human  respect,  and  fret  too  much  lest  the  world  should  misjudge 
you ;  and  I  want  you  to  feel  more  indejjendent  of  the  world  and  its 
iudgments.  Do  what  is  right,  and  look  up  to  (iod  for  the  rest ;  but 
do  not  expect  any  rew.'  rd  or  satisfaction  from  the  world  ;  for  it  will 
surely  cheat  you." 

"But,"  said  I,  "Mme.  de  Stael  says,  that  a  man  should  brave 
public  opinion,  but  a  womar  snould  bow  to  it."  "  My  child,"  an- 
swered the  Viscount,  "you  \/ill  always  misunderstand  me,  as  you  do 
half  of  the  maxims  of  our  French  writers.  Your  heart  is  all  •  ight, 
but  your  head  is  all  wrong —  Fofre  coeur  est  bon,  mais  voire  esprit  est 
a  travers. 

"  Of  course  it  is  man's  duty  to  fight  for  his  principles  in  the  public 
arena,  even  to  the  death;  while  woman's  is  an  obscure,  but  not  less 
important  mission.  But  when  she  has  conformed  to  established  rules 
and  customs,  and  has  a  clear  conscience,  why  should  she  not  be 
happy  ?  and  why  allow  those  to  make  her  miserable,  who  choose  to 
find  pastime  in  attacking  her  conscience  ?  " 

I  replied,  that  all  this  was  the  least  cause  of  my  unhappiness.  A 
far  greater  was,  that  our  hearts  never  beat  in  unison ;  that  I  was 
miserable  and  alone  even  when  near  him,  because  condemned  to 
feel,  that  our  hearts  could  never  be  united.  And  it  were  less  pain, 
I  added,  to  be  separated  from  him  altogether. 

"  Does  it  make  you  any  more  miserable  than  it  does  me,"  he  asked, 
"  that  I  am  unable  to  forget,  or  to  make  you  remember,  the  diflference 
of  our  years  ?    Your  love  fur  me  is  the  greatest  solace  of  life  j  and  the 


,  that  I  may  fall  in 


AUTUMN   AND    SPRING. 


169 


day  may  come, — but  God  knows  I  am  not  anxious  for  it,  for  I  would 
willingly  lay  down  my  life,  if  it  would  insure  a  few  happy  years  to  my 
daii'Miter, — but  the  day  may  come,  when  I  will  ask  you  to  niake  the 
sacrifice  to  become  my  wife.  A  sacrifice  indeed  it  would  be,  although 
you  at  the  time  miglit  not  deem  it  such.  1  fear  you  will  discover, 
when  too  late,  that  Autumn  and  Spring  consort  better,  as  father  and 
child,  than  as  husband  and  wife.  Marriage  is  a  great  disenchanter. 
When  two  beings  are  united  by  an  indissoluble  bond,  it  requires 
great  virtue  and  much  mutual  sacrifice  of  taste  and  inclination  to 
preserve  through  life  those  sentiments,  and  to  keep  alive  that  warmth 
of  feeling,  which  first  animated  them." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

MARIA   monk's    confession. — THE   MOST    AWFUL    OF     HER    "AWFUL 

DISCLOSURES." 

My  sister  arrived  in  June,  with  her  eldest  daughter.  I  brought 
my  child  home  from  the  convent,  thinking  that  the  companionship 
of  my  niece  would  reconcile  her  to  absence  from  the  convent.  I 
did  my  best  to  amuse  her,  and  wean  her  affections  from  the  Sisters. 
1  would  take  her  to  the  Champs  Elysees  to  see  Gtiigfiol,  (the  French 
Punch  and  Judy) ;  but  the  moment  the  excitement  was  over,  she 
would  importune  me  to  take  her  back  to  the  good  mother. 

One  morning,  as  soon  as  she  awoke,  she  recommenced  her  usual 
petition.  I  said  :  "  Not  to-day,  but  to-morrow."  She  put  on  a  sad 
countenance,  and  that  morning  she  fainted  at  the  breakfast-table. 
As  she  slowly  opened  her  eyes,  she  looked  piteously  and  beseech- 
ingly in  my  face,  and  said  :  "  Mamma,  won't  you  take  me  back  to  the 
good  mother  ?  "  I  regretted,  that  I  had  ever  left  her  at  the  convent ; 
and  I  began  to  hate  the  Catholics,  for  having  robbed  me,  as  I  thought, 
of  my  child's  affection.     1  took  the  child  back  thit  same  afternoon. 

The  next  day  1  was  abusing  the  Catholics  in  conversation  with  my 
sister,  when,  to  ni)-  surprise,  she  seemed  inclined  to  defend   them. 
]  asked  her  how  it  was  possible  for  her  to  think  well  of  them,  after 
all  our  mother  had  said  against  them. 
8 


170 


A   PLEA    OF    "GUILTY. 


I!     :t 


I!   iiJ'; 
II     I, 


She  replied  :  "  But  do  you  not  know,  that  that  book  of  our  mothor 
was  all  a  lie  ?  " 

Said  I :  **  I  believe  every  word  in  Maria  Monk's  '  Awful  Disclos- 
ures.' " 

My  sister  was  quite  irritated  and  said  enii)hatically  :  "I  know, 
that  the  *■  Atvful  Disclosures^  of  Maria  Monk  are  all  lies;  she 
HERSKLF  TOLD  ME  SO."  Said  I  :  "  Why  did  she  write  it  then  ? " 
*'  In  order  to  make  money,"  my  sister  replied  :  "  some  men  put  her 
up  to  it;  but  she  never  received  one  cent  of  the  proceeds  of  the 
book ;  for  these  men  kept  all  for  themselves." 

My  sister  continued,  and  told  me,  that  her  fathei  was  not  a  priest, 
as  alleged  by  Maria  Monk,  but  a  physician,  of  Brooklyn.  She  told 
me  his  name,  which  I  remember  distinctly,  but  which  I  do  not  think 
prudent  or  charitable  to  divulge.  She  said,  that  she  had  seen  him 
once  or  twice.  I  remembered,  that  she  had  told  me  the  same  thing 
years  ago,  while  I  stayed  with  her  in  the  Bowery ;  but  she  never 
before  told  me  of  my  mother's  admission  of  the  falsehood  of  her 
"  Awful  Disclosures"  of  which,  I  have  since  learned,  my  sister  also 
informed  my  brother. 

She  now  dwelt  at  great  length  on  all  that  our  mother  suffered  be- 
fore her  death,  and  repeated  what  she  had  told  me,  when  a  child. 

When  my  sister  told  me,  that  my  mother's  book  was  a  lie,  a  tremor 
passed  over  me,  at  the  thought,  that  such  a  woman  should  be  my 
mother  ;  and  I  felt  humbled  to  the  earth.  1  had  not  the  charity  in 
my  heart  for  her  then,  that  I  have  now.  I  now  feel,  that  my  mother 
was  not  so  much  worse  a  woman,  than  any  one  else,  who  lives  in  sin, 
and  that  she  was  much  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  from  the 
time,  when  as  a  child,  she  was  thrust  out  of  her  home  into  the  street 
by  her  own  mother,  to  be  taken  into  a  Magdalen  asylum,  as  an  ob- 
ject of  charity. 

I  have  been  told,  that  my  mother  at  eighteen  was  handsome  and 
quite  prepossessing.  She  had  no  education.  She  did  not  write  her 
book  ;  in  fact  the  book  itself  admits,  that  she  did  not.  She  only  gave 
certain  alleged  facts,  which  were  dressed  up  by  the  men,  who  after- 
wards helped  to  cheat  her  out  of  the  proceeds  of  her  crime. 

A  young  girl  of  eighteen,  with  her  disposition,  unrestrained  either 
by  education  or  religion, — thrown  penniless  on  the  world,  the  vic- 
tim of  a  licentious  man,  and  driven  to  seek  refuge  in  a  hospital- 
would  naturally  try  to  make  friends  among  the  visitors  and  attend 


RECOMMENDATION   TO    MERCY. 


17! 


ok  of  our  mother 

'Awful  Disclos- 

ically :  "I  know, 
ire  all  lies  ;   she 

write  it  then  ?  " 
>nie  men  put  her 

proceeds  of  the 

7vas  not  a  priest, 
ooklyn.  She  told 
ich  I  do  not  think 
he  had  seen  him 
ne  the  same  thing 
y ;  but  she  never 

falsehood  of  her 
ed,  my  sister  also 

lother  suffered  be- 
,  when  a  child, 
was  a  lie,  a  tremor 
nan  should  be  my 
1  not  the  charity  in 
el,  that  my  mother 
e,  who  lives  in  sin, 
n  sinning,  from  the 
ome  into  the  street 
asylum,  as  an  ob- 

was  handsome  and 
e  did  not  write  her 
lot.  She  only  gave 
;he  men,  who  after- 
ler  crime, 
unrestrained  either 
the  world,  the  vie- 
ye  in  a  hospital— 
/isitors  and  attend 


ants,  by  representing  herself  as  the  helpless  victim  of  circumstances. 
And,  in  order  the  better  to  enlist  their  sympathies  she  would  take 
care  to  shape  her  story  so,  as  to  suit  the  prejudices  and  partialities  of 
those,  whose  protection  she  sought. 

The  visitors  and  officers  of  Jkllevue  Hospital,  at  tlie  time  Maria 
Monk  was  a  patient  there,  were  notoriously  anti-Catholic.  These 
men  gloated  over  the  horrid  fictions  of  her  diseased  imagination,  and 
published  them  to  gratify  their  prejudice,  and  with  the  less  sentimen- 
tal object  of  swelling  their  own  profits. 

My  mother  may  have  known  a  few  of  the  external  observances 
of  the  Catholic  religion,  but  she  knew  nothing  of  its  spirit, — and  she 
could  not  have  been  conscious  of  the  full  extent  of  the  enormity  of 
her  crime,  when  she  made  herself  an  accomplice  of  the  work,  which 
bears  her  name. 

We  should  not  forget  to  take  into  consideration  her  youth,  and  her 
misery,  at  the  time,  that  these  men  gave  her  the  hope  of  rising  above 
poverty,  if  she  would  allow  them  to  publish  in  her  name  such  calum- 
nies against  the  inmates  of  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

Most  Catholics  shrink  with  horror  at  the  very  mention  of  the  name 
of  Maria  Monk  ;  but  God  is  more  merciful  than  His  children  ; — He 
judges  the  intent  and  not  the  act. 

I  seek  not  to  exonerate  my  mother.  It  was  indeed  a  cruel  and 
nefarious  thing  on  her  part,  to  try  to  blacken  the  characters  of  unof- 
fending and  holy  women,  entirely  dedical'.'d  to  the  service  of  religion 
and  humanity.  Hut  bad  as  she  was,  she  did  not  destroy  her  offspring  ; 
and  let  every  woman,  who  has  sinned,  and  to  hide  her  shame  has 
committed  a  still  greater  sin,  examine  her  own  conscience,  before 
daring  to  pass  judgment  on  Maria  Monk. 

It  will  hardly  surprise  any  one  to  learn,  that  the  men,  who  were  so 
eager  from  motives  of  prejudice  and  profit  to  rob  the  nuns  of  the  Hotel 
Dieu  of  their  good  name,  should  have  in  fact  robbed  their  unfortunate 
tool,  Afaria  Monk,  of  the  proceeds  of  her  book.* 

*  3.  Edwards'  Clianc.  Rep.  109. — Wm.  T.  McCoun,  Vice-Cliauc. 

May  i6,  1837. 
f  JNIonk,  by  her  next  friend,  v.  Harper  and  others.]     .... 

Where  a  wrong  in  relation  to  a  literary  work  has  been  already  committed,  but 
there  is  no  claim  of  copyright  set  up,  and  tlie  bill  does  not  ask  for  an  injunction, 
the  party  must  be  left  to  pursue  an  action  at  law  for  (lama>>es.  And  when  stereo- 
tyi .;  plates  connected  with  such  work  have  iieeu  wrongfully  possessed,  the  remedy 
is  exclusively  at  law  by  trover  or  replevin. 

Bill  for  discovery  and  account  against  the  defendants  as  booksellers  and  publishers. 


n,      i       "'lif 


ri- 


I  I 


ill 


172 


MONK   VERSUS    HARPER. 


"  Maria  ]\ronk's  disclosures  were  not  all  made  in  the  book  pub- 
lished by  that  somewhat  nebulous  firm,  Howe  &  Bates.  The  most 
'  awful '  of  all  her  'awful  disclosures'  were  made  in  the  dignified  form 
of  a  bill  in  equity.  .  .  .  Two  years  after  the  publication  of  the  ' 
*  Awful  Disclosures,'  the  same  firm  of  the  Harpers  published  a  woik 
entitled  '  Protcstaat  Jesuitism,'  by  a  Protestant.  At  page  34  of  that 
book  Maria  JSfonk's  work  is  branded  as  '  one  of  the  most  arrant  fic- 
tions that  were  ever  palmed  upon  the  community.'  Thus  this  linn 
authorized  the  statement,  that  a  work,  which  had  yielded  them  im- 
mense profits,  was  a  tissue  of  lies." — The  Catholic  World  (vol.  xiv., 
No.  84,  pp.  727-728): 

The  cause  came  up  on  a  dcmiiirer. 

The  bill  was  filed  by  Maria  Monk,  a  minor,  through  her  next  friend,  John  I.  Slo- 
cum,  and  it  showed  that  she  was  the  authoress  of  a  work  which  she  had  intended  to 
style  "  The  Ilotel-Dieu  Nunnery  Unveiled,  illustrating  the  Character  and  Conduct 
of  Priests  and  Nuns  at  Montreal ;  "  that  a  copyright  under  the  said  title  liad  been 
taken  out  by  one  tieorge  Pourne.  as  the  complainant  believed,  for  her  benefit ;  that 
aliout  the  time  the  said  cojivright  was  taken  out,  the  complainant  caused  stereo- 
type plates  for  the  saidwcrk  to  be  cast  for  printing  the  sanie,  and  they  had  been  in 
whole  or  in  part  paid  for  by  her  or  with  money  l)eh)nging  to  her,  and  that  she  was 
liable  for  any  balance  remaining  unpaid.  That  after  the  cojiyright  had  been  so 
taken  out,  the  saiil  plates  got  into  the  possession  of  the  defendant,  anil  that  tliey 
had  jiublished  the  work  un<ler  the  title  of  "Awful  Disclosures  of  Maria  Monk,  as 
exhibited  in  a  Narrative  of  her  Sufferings  during  a  Residence  of  live  Years  a>  a 
Novice  and  two  Years  as  a  Black  Nun  in  the  I  lotel-I  )ieu  Nunnery  at  Montreal." 
That  at  the  time  of  taking  out  the  said  copyright,  and  at  the  period  of  jirinting  and 
puiili^hing  the  work  aforesaid,  she  was  a  minor  without  legal  guardian  or  advisers, 
and  had  been  born  and  educated  in  Canada,  with  no  friends  in  the  United  Stale>, 
and  was  entirely  unacipiainted  with  the  modes  of  doing  business.  She  believeil  that 
jicr.soiis  professing  to  be  her  friends  had  m.ade  some  bargain  for  her  in  relation  to 
the  said  work ;  that  she  understood  some  prorital)le  agreement  of  that  kiiul  was 
made  by  the  said  Ceorge  Pourne  with  Messrs.  Dwight  and  Van  No>trand  ;  that  this 
was  known  to  the  defendants,  and  yot  they  jiretended  to  take  out  another  copyright 
of  the  work  under  the  name  of  "  Awful  Disclosures,"  etc.,  in  the  District  of  .Mas- 
sachusetts, and  published  a  large  number  of  impressions  from  the  [ilales,  and  issued 
t!ic  book  ;  and  that  they  had  large  profits  in  their  hands  which  belonged  to  the 
complainant.  The  prayer  was :  "And  that  the  said  James,  John,  Jose|)h  \V.  and 
Fletcher  Harjier,  and  each  of  them,  may  make  a  full,  fair,  and  unei|uivocal  state- 
ment, and  set  forth  all  transactions  and  bargains  that  may  have  been  made  relative 
to  the  printing  and  publishing  and  sale  of  said  work,  and  maybe  directed  to  assign, 
transfer,  and  delivev  over,  under  oath,  to  the  guardian  of  your  oratrix,  or  into 
this  honorable  Court,  all  sums  of  money  and  all  property  of  every  kind,  and  the 
evidences  thereof  that  belong  to  your  oratrix,  with  a  full  statement  of  all  sales  that 
may  have  been  made  of  s.iid  work,  with  the  amount  received  hir  the  same.  Ami 
that  they  may  state  and  answer  as  to  all  matter  charged  in  this  bill,  to  be  known 
to  them,  or  either  of  them,  with  sufrKicnt  distinctness  to  enable  this  lionorahle 
Court  to  understand,  and  do  that  which  in  etjuity  ought  to  be  done."  No  appli- 
cation had  been  made  for  any  injunction,  nor  v\as  there  a  prayer  for  one  in  the  hill. 

The  defendants  gave  the  following  as  some  causes  of  demurrer  :  That  the  cnni- 
])lainant  did  not  show  herself  to  be  a  citi/en  entitled  to  lake  out  a  copyright ; 
nor  show  a  suflicient  case  for  an  account ;  nor  did  it  appear  that  Cieorge  .Uouriie, 


AN   IMPARTIAL   EDITOR. 


173 


The  truth  of  my  sister's  statement,  that  she  knew  my  mother's 
book  to  be  a  lie,  as  my  mother  had  told  her  so,  is  fully  confirmed  by 
the  staloment  of  Colonel  Stone,  the  Protestant  editor  of  the  A''i7c 
York  Comiiuicial  Advertiser,  who  made  a  ])ersonal  examination  of 
the  H6lel-])ieu  Convent  at  Montreal.  After  proving  the  falsity  of 
my  mother's  statements  and  rhe  physical  impossibility  of  the  events 
taking  place  which  she  disclosed,  he  concludes  his  able  refutation  of  ■ 
tlie  calumnies  in  these  words  : 

"  But  1  '.veary  in  the  exiwsure  of  impossibilities.  Nor  is  it  neces- 
sary to  proceed  fiirther  with  them.  I  might,  indeed,  write  a  volume, 
as  large  as  her  own,  in  the  exposure  of  the  multitudinous  inconsis- 
tencies and  contradictions  of  the  'Awful  Disclosures;'  but  'the 
game  would  not  be  worth  the  candle.'  I  will  therefore  close  this 
])rotracted  statement  by  expressing  my  deliberate  and  solemn  opinion, 
founded  not  only  ujion  my  own  careful  examination,  but  the  firmest 
convictions  of  nearly  the  entire  population  of  Montreal,  embracing 
the  great  body  of  the  most   intelligent  evangelical  Christians,  that 

her  supposed  trustee,  showed  any  copyright  in  liimself  for  her  ;  also,  tliat  said  Bourne 
shouUl  have  been  a  party,  or  a  reason  given  why  he  was  not ;  that  if  the  said  coni- 
]ilain;int  liad  the  sole  copyright,  a  discovery  niiglit  make  the  defendant  liable  for 
penalties,  etc.,  etc.  .  .  .  (Emerson  and  Fessenden  in  support  of  Demurrer  ; 
Patten  for  Complainant. 

Vicic-t'iiANCKi.i.OR  :  "  The  bUl  docs  not  seek  the  preventive  remedy  by  injunc- 
tion in  order  to  protect  the  common-law  right  of  the  complainant  as  authoress, 
against  the  publication  of  her  manuscri]5t,  or  the  violation  of  any  copyright  secured 
to  her,  or  to  any  jicrson  for  her  use  under  the  acts  of  Congress.  That  this  C<>urt 
wouM  interfere  in  such  a  case  cannot  lie  denied.     (Jeremy's  Eq.  Jur.,  317.) 

"  I  consider  it  equally  clear  that  when  the  object  is  to  obtain  redress  for  a  wrong 
already  connnitted — such  as  is  alleged  in  this  bill — such  redress  must  be  sought 
elsewhere.  If,  therefore,  the  complainant  has  any  rights  as  authoress,  either  at 
common  law  or  under  acts  of  Congress,  and  the  defendants  have  encroached  upon 
those  rights  by  the  publication  of  lier  book,  she  must  sue  them  at  law  for  damages, 
so  if  they  have  possessed  themselves  of  the  stereotype  plates  which  jjclong  to  her,  an 
action  (if  Jiover  (jr  replevin  can  be  had.  This  Court  will  luit  entertain  a  bill  for  the 
]iurp()so  of  iistoiing  to  her  the  ])ossession  of  such  articles  of  property,  or  of  com- 
pensating her  in  damages  for  the  deprivation.  Nor  does  this  biilf  in  my  opinion, 
make  a  case  for  an  account  against  the  defendants  of  the  jirofits  deriveil  by  them 
from  the  printing  aril  publication  and  sale  of  the  work.  It  does  not  show  any 
))rivity  of  contract  or  dealing  between  the  jiarties — no  agreement  expressed  or  im- 
plied i)y  which  the  defendant  can  be  lield  to  account  to  tlie  complainant  for  the 
I'rofits  of  the  work.  It  rather  shows  that,  by  fraud  and  wrong,  the  defendnnts  ob- 
tained possessiim  of  the  stereotyjie  ])latcs,  and  altering  the  title  of  the  i)ook  to  that 
of  'Awful  Disclosures,'  etc.,  published  it  in  defiance  of  her  rights.  If  she  has 
sustained  loss  by  such  couduct  of  the  defendants,  she  must  jicrsuade  a  jury  to  give 
her  coiniiensation  in  a  verdict  of  damages  against  them — when  ])crhaps  the  merit 
of  iicr  '/\w!ul  Disclosures'  and  'Nunnery  Unveiled,'  and  the  motives  of  those 
who  have  i>roiiiiited  and  jirompted  the  publication,  will  be  duly  considered." 

Demurrer  allowed ;  and  bill  dismissed,  with  costs  to  be  paid  by  the  next  friend 
of  the  complainant. 


THE   SUMMING    UP. 


Maria  Monk  is  an  arrant  impostor,  and  her  book,  in  all  its 
ESSENTIAL  FEATURES,  A  TISSUE  OF  CALUMNIES.  However  guilty  the 
Catholics  may  be  in  other  respects,  or  in  other  countries,  as  a  man 
of  honor  and  professor  of  the  Protestant  faith,  I  most   solemnly 

BELIEVE,    that    THE     PRIESTS    AND     NUNS    ARE     INNOCENT    IN    THIS 

MATTER. — William  L.  Stone." 


m 


p  iy 


CHAPTER  XL. 

LAFERRlfeRE     AND   GIBBON. — THE   LADIES    OF    THE    HOLY   FAMILY.— 
THEIR   HOME    AT   ST.    MAND£. 

My  sister  stayed  with  me  a  few  weeks,  and  then  left  France.  I 
was  heartily  tired  of  the  life,  I  was  leading,  and  determined  to  leave 
Paris.  I  consulted  Laferriere,  and  told  him  how  J  was  grieved  to 
have  lost  my  child's  affection.  He  sympathized  with  me  in  my  re- 
grets concerning  my  child,  but  he  could  not  see,  why  I  should  not  be 
content  in  other  respects,  as  I  had  everything  else,  that  my  heart 
could  wish  for. 

He  too  readily  forgot,  that  I  had  everything  except  just  that,  which 
wa£  the  one  desire  of  my  heart. 

The  thought  came  to  me,  that  I  should  go  and  stay  with  my  child, 
as  she  would  not  stay  with  me.  Laferriere  was  much  pleased  with 
the  proposal,  and  suggested,  that  I  should  stay  in  the  convent  for  a 
month,  while  he  went  down  to  his  chateau ;  as  he  disliked  to  have 
me  go  to  a  watering-place  without  him,  and  his  accompanying  me, 
might  give  scandal ;  while  I  w(nild  not  go  to  his  chateau,  tis  I  had 
never  spokew  to  his  daughter,  since  I  knew,  that  she  was  the  only  ob- 
stacle to  our  marriage. 

My  chief  objection  to  go  and  live  in  the  convent  was,  that  I  was 
full  of  prejudices  against  the  Catholics,  notwithstanding  all  that  my 
sister  had  said  to  me  in  regard  to  the  great  wrong  my  mother  had  done 
them.  I  had  no  faith  in  them,  and  looked  upon  them  as  partly 
dupes,  partly  rogues,  and  partly  hypocrites. 

It  pained  Laferriere  to  hear  me  speak  of  Catholics  as  I  did,  and 
he  tried  quietly  to  convince  me  of  my  error,  and  that  it  was  only  my 
total  ignorance,  which  made  me  so  prejudiced.    I  tried  hard  to  make 


AN    UNHEROIC    CONVERT. 


m 


BOOK,  IN  ALL  ITS 

)\vever  guilty  the 
iiintries,  as  a  man 

MOST    SOLEMNLY 
NOCENT    IN    THIS 


HOLY    FAMILY. — 

I  left  France.  I 
terinined  to  leave 
'  I  was  grieved  to 
with  me  in  my  re- 
ly  I  should  not  be 
:lse,  that  my  heart 

pt  just  that,  which 

tay  with  my  child, 
inich  pleased  witii 
the  convent  for  a 
e  disliked  to  have 
ccompanying  ine, 
chateau,  Us  I  had 
e  was  the  only  ob- 

nt  was,  that  I  was 
tiding  all  that  my 
y  mother  had  done 

II  them  as  partly 

olics  as  I  did,  and 
lat  it  was  only  my 
lied  hard  to  make 


him  acknowledge,  that  he  himself  had  little  or  no  faith,  and  that  he 
was  only  a  Catholic,  because  his  mother  had  him  baptized  one. 

I  thought,  that  I  would  have  but  little  trouble  in  making  him  a 
proselyte  to  infidelity ;  and  I  began  to  give  him  my  Voltairian  theo- 
ries, and  I  accused  the  Catholics  of  being  narrow-minded,  and  of  sti- 
lling the  efforts  of  the  intellect.  1  told  him,  :hat,  if  he  would  read 
(libbon,  I  was  sure  that  writer  would  convince  him,  that  the  first 
Christians  were  the  greatest  of  imbeciles. 

At  the  mention  of  Gibbon's  name,  his  face  assumed  the  air  of  one 
trying  to  master  his  temper.  He  answered  me,  with  great  earnestness, 
and  iecision,  that  he  was  more  familiar  with  Gibbon,  than  with  Bossuet, 
and  that  Gibbon  was  the  least  adapted  to  convince  him  of  anything. 

Villemain's  Criticisms  on  the  writers  of  the  eighteenth  century  lay  on 
the  table.  He  took  up  the  second  volume,  and  began  to  read,  where 
the  writer  describes  some  of  the  early  events  of  the  skeptic  Gibbon's 
life ;  how  he  became  a  Catholic,  not  by  chance,  by  poverty,  or  by 
caprice,  as  Rousseau  did,  but  after  having  read  the  eloquent  work  of 
liossuet  on  the  Variations  of  the  Protestant  Churches  ;  and  how  his 
father,  who  belonged  to  the  established  church,  was  so  displeased  with 
the  conversion  of  his  son,  that  he  sent  him  to  Lausanne.  In  the 
words  of  Villemain  :  "  Gibbon  was  here  subjected  to  a  pretty  rough 
course  of  treatment,  which  brought  him  back,  in  reality  or  in  appear- 
ance, to  his  old  religion.  His  soul  does  not  seem  to  have  been  ex- 
actly made  for  the  practice  of  resignation  to  sacrifice,  and  resistance 
to  undue  pressure  from  authority." 

(iibbor  himself  says,  that  the  life  there  was  too  sad,  and  that  they 
set  too  bad  a  table  ;  both  of  which  things  hastened  his  re-conversion. 
Ui)on  which  Villemain  remarks,  that  a  man,  who  makes  such  a  start 
in  life  and  in  the  theological  career,  does  not  seem  to  him  well  fitted 
to  conceive  a  very  disinterested  enthusiasm  for  the  martyrs. 

Laferri<^re  continued  to  denounce  my  favorite  historian,  occasionally 
referring  to  the  book  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  was  not  willing, 
that  I  should  even  tolerate  the  principles  of  such  an  author,  much  less 
be  prejudiced  by  them.  He  did  not  withhold  lis  admiration  for  the 
intelligence  and  rare  talents  displayed  in  (iibbon's  works,  which,  as 
Villemain  had  said,  it  was  far  easier  to  censure  than  to  equal ;  but  he 
wondered  how  a  i)erson  like  myself,  could  be  influenced  by  a  writer, 
who  was  ever  siding  with  the  executioner  against  the  victim,  and  who 
kept  all  his  enthusiasm  for  material  greatness,  while  his  heart  re- 


IJ'  s 


176 


HEARTLESS   MOCKERS. 


mained  cold,  and  his  genius  mute,  before  the  sufferings,  the  combats, 
and  the  triumphs  of  the  moral  order. 

He  could  not,  he  said,  conceive  how  an  American  could  admire  a 
historian,  who  looked  upon  the  military  despotism  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire as  the  master-piece  of  civiHzation,  and  whose  great  spite  against 
Christianity  arose  from  the  fact,  that  it  liad  sucgeeded  in  overthrow- 
ing the  empire  of  the  Ciesars. 

There  never  was  a  historian,  he  said,  so  thoroughly  destitute  of 
sensibility  as  Gibbon,  and  he  had  often  wondered  liow  a  being  pos- 
sessing human  instincts,  could  have  so  cruelly  and  heartlessly  mocked 
and  derided  men,  whose  only  crime  was  to  die  for  their  fidelity  to  con- 
science. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  continued,  "  Gibbon  inspires  me  with  more  hor- 
ror for  his  cold  insensibility,  than  he  does  with  admiration  for  his 
genius  and  learning.  I  for  one  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  weep 
over  the  monuments  of  tyranny  and  despotism,  which  have  crumbled 
into  dust  at  the  feet  of  moral  worth  and  religious  truth." 

He  continued  to  talk  in  this  strain,  until  I  put  a  stop  to  it  by  bring- 
ing in  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  ''  Rousseau,"  said  he,  and  he  caught  up 
the  book  and  threw  it  contemptuously  on  the  table, — "  Rousseau  al- 
ways used  to  put  me  to  sleep  ;  and,  as  I  don't  feel  like  dozing  in  your 
charming  society,  we  will  throw  him  aside ;  but  Voltaire,  who  is  the 
king  of  geniuses,  and  the  prince  of  mockers,  I  always  read  in  tlie 
same  way  as  I  go  to  the  theatre,  to  be  delighted,  amused,  and  inter- 
ested. But  if  I  wanted  to  strengthen  my  mind,  and  to  give  it  a 
force,  that  would  enable  it  to  withstand  alike  good  and  adverse  for- 
tune, I  would  not  go  to  Voltaire  ;  I  would  do  better  ;  I  would  read 
the  lives  of  the  saints  and  martyrs  ;  which,  my  child,  I  would  much 
prefer  having  you  study,  as  stupid  as  you  might  find  them,  to  seeing 
you  infect  and  enervate  your  mind  with  the  anti-Christian  theories  of 
the  philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  next  morning  I  called  to  see  the  Princess  Sulkowska,  who  had 
become  my  bosom  friend  since  my  return  to  Paris.  The  moment  1 
told  her,  that  I  thought  of  going  to  the  convent  to  remain  a  few  weeks 
with  my  child,  she  ordered  the  carriage,  and  we  drove  at  once  to  St. 
Mande. 

When  I  mentioned  to  the  Superior  my  desire  to  board  at  the  con- 
vent, she  was  startled  at  the  thought  of  taking  so  worldly-minded 
a  woman,  and  made  every  possible  objection  to  my  coining.     The 


A   NEW-FASHIONED    POSTULANT, 


177 


ngs,  the  combats, 

n  could  admire  a 
)f  the  Roman  ein- 
;ieat  spite  against 
led  in  overthrow- 

ighly  destitute  of 
how  a  being  pes- 
leartlessly  mocked 
eir  fidelity  to  con- 

x\e  with  more  her- 
idmiration  for  his 
ny  heart  to  weep 
ch  have  crumbled 
uth." 

;top  to  it  by  bring- 
,  and  he  caught  up 
, — "Rousseau  al- 
ike dozing  in  your 
iltaire,  who  is  the 
ways  read  in  the 
nused,  and  intcr- 
and  to  give  it  a 
and  adverse  for- 
er  ;  I  would  read 
Id,  I  would  much 
1  them,  to  seeing 
ristian  theories  of 

dkowska,  who  had 
.  The  moment  I 
main  a  few  weeks 
ove  at  once  to  St. 

board  at  the  con- 
0  worldly-minded 
my  coining.     Tiie 


Princess  overruled  all  her  objections.  The  Superior  changed  her 
tactics,  and  tried  to  frighten  me  out  of  my  design,  by  enumerating  the 
stringent  rules,  which  1  would  necessarily  be  subjected  to;  from  which 
she  could  not  exempt  any  one  within  the  walls  of  the  convent,  as  she 
herself  had  to  be  as  observant  of  the  rules,  as  the  humblest  Sister. 
She  told  me,  that  I  could  not  receive  any  gentlemen  except  in  the 
common  parlor,  and  then  only  from  two  until  five  ;  that  I  must  be  in- 
side the  walls  of  the  convent  by  nine,  and  could  not  go  out  alone, 
and  could  not  look  out  of  any  of  the  front  windows. 

Said  I  :  "  I  subscribe  to  all  that."  "  Oh  !  no,"  she  said,  "  my  dear 
child,  you  would  not  be  contented  to  remain  here  twenty-four  hours." 
"  My  good  mother,  "  I  replied,"  I  am  thoroughly  sick  of  the  world, 
and  long  to  get  out  of  that  constant  whirl  of  excitement ;  it  is  killing 
me." 

I  spoke  with  an  earnestness,  that  quite  amused  the  mother ;  for  she 
thought,  that  I  was  incapable  of  having  one  serious  thought.  The 
Princess  said,  that  she  was  willing  to  go  bail,  that  I  would  be  content- 
ed. It  but  made  the  motl  .r  laugh  the  more  to  see  how  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  the  Princess  of  my  seriousness.  She  said,  that 
it  would  be  a  moral  impossibility  for  one  like  myself,  who  had  never 
been  subjected  to  any  restraint,  to  be  contented  there,  where  no  one, 
not  even  herself,  could  ever  do  her  own  will ;  and  she  assured  me, 
that  it  was  on  my  own  account,  that  she  wished  me  not  to  come,  as 
she  knew,  that  I  would  suffer;  and  she  too  would  be  unhappy,  that 
she  could  not  grant  me  any  more  liberty,  than  the  rules  allowed. 

I  finally  said,  that  if  she  would  not  let  me  come,  I  must  take  away 
the  child  ;  which  frightened  the  child  so  that  she  climbed  into  the 
mother's  lap  and  wept,  as  if  she  were  to  be  the  chief  sufferer  by  the 
mother's  refusal.  The  Superior  made  tlie  child  take  my  hand  and 
walk  with  me  in  the  garden,  while  she  stayed  with  the  Prihcess. 

7\fter  some  time  they  joined  me,  and  by  the  joyous  expression  of 
the  Princess's  face,  I  could  see  that  the  conference  had  ended  in  my 
favor.  The  Superior  had  agreed,  that  I  might  stay  there  during  the 
summer  vacation,  which  would  begin  in  a  few  days,  and  would  last 
eight  weeks. 

I   could  readily   rnderstand,  that   the  Princess  had   brought  the 

mother  over  with  the  idea,  that  there  was  a  chance  of  converting 

me  ;  which  the  Princess  had  never  despaired  of,  since  the  day  she 

first  made  my  acquaintance.     She   had  always  been  praying  for  it, 
8-1= 


li 

it 


,■1^ 


i78 


MY    UxNEXPECTEU    PARADISE. 


t 


had  even  made  novcnas,  or  nine-days'  prayers,  for  it,  and  was  con 
stantly  telling  her  friends,  that,  if  I  could  only  be  converted,  she 
believed  I  would  do  a  great  deal  of  good. 

The  mother  was  not  so  sanguine  in  this  respect ;  in  fact,  she  looked 
upon  my  conversion  as  almost  hopeless  ;  for  she  was  well  acquainted 
witii  my  aversion  for  the  Catholic  religion,  as  I  had  never  attempted 
to  conceal  it  from  her.  I  had  been  equally  frank  with  the  Princess ; 
but  she  would  never  pa}'  any  attention  to  my  railleries. 

The  Superior  conducted  th.^  Princess  and  myself  across  the  street, 
to  show  us  the  apartments  wh'ch  would  be  assigned  to  me  during 
my  stay  ;  and,  as  we  waited  for  the  portress  to  unfasten  the  door, 
the  lugubrious^  aspect  of  the  street,  with  its  high  sepulchral  walls  on 
each  side,  made  a  ch^'ll  pass  over  me.  But  the  moment  the  massive 
door  was  opened,  a  magnificent  garden  spread  itself  before  us.  It 
was  an  enclosure  of  about  twelve  acres,  surrounded  by  a  high  wall, 
the  top  of  which  was  thickly  garnished  with  broken  glass.  To  tjie 
right,  as  we  entered  the  garden,  was  an  old  chateau,  which  had  for- 
merly been  a  country-seat  of  Fouquet,  the  minister  of  finance  under 
Louis  XIV.  The  grounds,  which  surrounded  it,  were  artistically 
laid  out  in  beautiful  lawns  and  serpentine  alleys,  shaded  on  each  side 
by  lilac  bushes,  which  had  grown  very  tall,  and  were  so  thickly  in- 
terlaced, that  they  formed  almost  as  impenetrable  a  barrier,  as  the 
wall,  which  surrounded  the  whole  enclosure.  In  the  centre  of  a 
wide  lawn,  which  lay  in  front  of  the  chateau,  stood  a  large  tree,  a 
cedar  of  Lebanon,  of  more  than  two  centuries'  growtli.  The  wide- 
spreading  branches  of  this  beautiful  tree,  and  its  lofty  head,  which 
towered  niajef-^ically  above  the  chateau  and  the  surrounding  trees, 
amply  justified  the  name,  which  the  nuns  had  given  it,  of  "The 
Monarch  of  the  Garden." 

At  the  farthest  end  of  this  lawn  was  a  walk  shaded  by  sycanioie 
trees,  which  led  to  a  high  mound  covered  with  shrubbery,  through 
which  had  been  cut  a  winding  path,  by  which  we  ascended  to  the 
summit ;  where  we  found  a  dilapidated  kiosk,  which  had  been  «;ntirely 
hidden  from  our  view  by  clusters  of  rose-bushes  and  grape  vines. 
On  reaching  the  top  of  the  mound  we  had  a  most  commanding  view 
of  Paris. 

These  spacious  gardens  contained  every  variety  of  fruit,  and  plant, 
and  vegetable.  The  grassy  lawn  and  the  borders  of  the  walks  were 
thickly  strewn  with  violets  of  every  hue  ;  and  the  gentlest  breeze 


AN    HISTORICAL   MIRROR. 


175 


would  impregnate  the  whole  garden  with  their  odor.  The  Princess 
and  myself  were  equally  taken  by  surprise,  to  find  there  so  enchant- 
ing a  si)ot,  and  we  were  enraptured  with  the  beautiful  prospect. 

Tile  chateau,  which  was  to  be  my  home  till  the  end  of  vacation, 
was  unoccupied.  I  was  to  have  a  suite  of  rooms,  facing  on  the  gar- 
den, consisting  of  a  spacious  parlor  and  bedroom,  a  dining-room,  a 
room  for  the  maid,  a  room  for  my  toilet,  and  a  bath-room.  The 
saloon  presented  the  sombre  appearance  of  a  past  age.  There  were 
the  antique  mouldings  and  furniture,  the  high  chimney-piece,  and 
large  fireplace,  and  immense  mirrors. 

The  mirror  directly  opposite  the  chimney-piece  filled  the  space 
between  the  large  windows.  It  was  broken  at  the  top.  It  was  be- 
hind this  mirror,  that  the  papers  were  found  which  convicted  Fouquet. 
It  is  said  that  when  I>ouis  XIV.  used  to  go  hilnting  in  the  Park  of 
Vincennes,  he  would  stop  and  refresh  himself  at  the  chateau ;  and 
that  he  had  often  paced  this  very  saloon.  • 

The  convent  grounds,  which  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
extended  to  the  Park  of  Vincennes,  and  one  of  the  entrances  into 
the  convent  grounds  was  by  a  gateway  through  the  park-railing  on 
the  west  side. 

The  Superior  inquired  how  I  would  pass  my  time.  The  Princess 
told  her  of  my  fondness  for  study  ;  and  the  Superior  offered  to  let 
me  have,  during  the  vacation,  as  many  of  the  ladies  to  instruct  me, 
as  I  wished. 

L.  ferriere  was  delighted,  that  I  had  determined  to  stayat  St.  Mande 
during  the  summer.  When  I  had  described  to  him  the  furniture  of 
the  chateau,  and  told  of  my  intended  studier,  he  proposed  to  com- 
plete the  latter  by  sending  me  a  harp  teacher  from  the  Conservatory, 
and  to  send  me  a  part  of  the  furniture  in  his  apartments,  so  that  I 
might  be  as  comfortable  at  the  convent,  as  I  was  in  Paris. 

It  was  in  the  first  week  of  August,  1867,  that  I  went  to  reside  in 
this  convent  chateau.     The  community  was  called  :   The  Ladies  of  the 
Holy  Family  ;  Les  Dames  de  la  Sainte  Famille.     It  is  the  educa 
tional  branch  of  the  convent  of  the  Sisters  of  Hope. 


100 


A    SPANISH    NUN. 


CHAPTER  XL  I. 


LIFE    AMONG   THE    NTJNS 


As  the  day  appointed  for  my  admission,  as  a  boarder,  into  the  con- 
vent, drew  near,  1  began  to  realize  the  fact,  that  1  could  not  be  happy 
Avithout  Laftiriere.  On  the  day  of  our  separation,  whjn  my  heart 
was  weighed  down  under  a  sense  of  my  lonely  position  and  depend- 
ence on  another,  for  all  that  makes  life  endurable,  Laferridre  proved 
himself  the  true  friend.  He  encouraged  me  in  my  good  resolution, 
and  helped  me  to  keep  up  my  courage,  by  reminding  me,  that  it 
would  be  only  for  a  short  time, — three  or  four  weeks  at  most. 

His  tears  fell  on  my  hands,  as  he  kissed  them,  when  he  helped  me 
into  the  carriage.  Said  he  :  "  My  child,  you  are  doing  what  is  right. 
God  will  reward  you  for  it ;  and  I  will  never  cease  to  love  you." 

When  I  arrived  at  the  convent,  my  child,  who  had  been  watching 
for  me  the  whole  day,  ran  towards  me,  holding  in  her  hand  a  nosegay 
of  violets,  which,  she  said,  she  had  gathered  for  her  little  mamma. 
She  called  the  Mother  Superior  i/ie  goot/ >noi/u;-,  but  me  she  always 
called  //it'  little  mamma. 

The  Superior  was  in  the  chateau,  waiting  to  receive  me.  Dy  her 
side  stood  a  young  Spanish  nun,  to  whom  she  introduced  me.  It 
was  Madam  St.  Xavier.  After  conversing  for  a  few  moments  in  lur 
native  tongue,  we  embraced;  and  then,  turning  to  the  Superior,  she 
thanked  her  for  having  chosen  her  to  be  one  of  my  teachers. 

Madam  Xavier  might  have  been  in  her  twenty-seventh  year.  Slie 
was  about  the  mediiun  height,  of  slender  and  delicate  mould,  with  a 
face,  that  expressed  all  the  sweetness  and  innocence  of  an  angel,  while 
it  bespoke  a  firmness  and  a  courage,  which  would  have  graced  the 
brow  of  a  hero. 

The  convent  bell  rang,  and  the  nuns  left  me.  The  garden  ap- 
peared to  me  more  lovely  than  ever,  lighted  up  as  it  was  by  an 
August  sunset.  I  began  to  run  through  it  like  a  wild  fawn,  over  the 
lawns  and  through  th  .  alleys,  imagining  all  the  while,  that  I  was  talk- 
ing to  Laferriere.  After  rambling  for  an  hour,  I  found  ni)  self  once 
more  near  the  garden-gate.  By  this  time  I  was  tired,  and  I  took  it 
into  my  head  to  cross  the  street  and  talk  with  the  Mother  Superior. 


BOOKS    FOR    USE  AND    FOR   SHOW. 


I8l 


But  I  found  the  massi  door  locked.  I  called  in  vain  for  some  one 
to  come  and  open  it. 

As  I  had  never  yet  known  locks  or  bolts  to  prevent  my  doing  any- 
thing I  wanted  to  do,  my  first  impulse  was  to  try  to  climb  over  the 
wall.  I  stei)ped  back  a  few  paces  to  see  what  my  chances  were  ; 
but  the  wall  appeared  twice  as  high  to  me  then  as  before,  and  the 
sight  of  its  coping  of  broken  glass  made  me  recoil  still  more.  I  ran 
into  the  chateau.  Tiie  thought  struck  me,  that  I  should  go  into  the 
basement  and  get  out  through  a  window.  I  found  them  all  protected 
by  a  strong  iron  grating,  that  would  hardly  permit  a  cat  to  pass.  I 
then  went  up  stairs  to  tiie  first  floor,  but  found  all  the  rooms,  that 
faced  on  the  street,  locked.  Then  I  remembered,  that  it  was  one  of  the 
rales  of  the  convent  never  to  look  out  of  a  front  window,  and  I  con- 
gratulated myself  upon  having  escaped  a  violation  of  rules,  into  which 
I  would  have  thoughtlessly  rushed,  I  hastened  to  my  rooms,  feeling 
thoroughly  checkmated,  and  I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  in  a  convent. 

In  packing  up  my  books,  to  come  to  the  convent,  I  had  put  all  the 
infidel  writers  into  a  litde  trunk  by  themselves.  This  trunk  I  hid  in 
a  closet.  But  Fenelon's  works  and  other,  as  1  supposed,  approved 
writers,  I  put  out  on  the  table.  Among  them  were  two  little  books 
which  I  had  never  read.  One  was  called  "'  T/ie  Words  of  Jesus  y  It 
was  given  to  me,  before  I  was  married,  by  a  lady  friend.  The  otiier 
was  called  '■'■  Evidences  of  Christianity."  It  was  given  me  by  Mr. 
Elise  Charlier,  after  the  death  of  my  husband.  I  had  always  intended 
to  read  "  Evidences  of  Christianity"  because  Mr.  Charlier,  when  he 
put  it  into  my  hands,  had  made  me  promise,  that  I  would  read  it. 
"  I  am  sure,"  said  he,  "  that  jou  cannot  read  tliat  book  without  be- 
coming a  Christian."  I  laughed,  and  told  him,  that  I  would  read  the 
book  to  please  him,  but  I  was  sure,  that  no  book  would  ever  convert 
vie.  Nearly  five  years  had  passed,  and  I  had  never  had  the  courage 
to  open  it.  The  very  title  set  me  against  it.  I  put  these  two  books 
on  the  table,  on  account  of  their  respectable  titles,  and  to  make  thus 
a  good  impression  on  the  nuns.  .     "       ' 

Ever  since  I  had  placed  my  child  in  a  convent,  and  had  deter- 
mined to  educate  her  in  one,  I  had  marked  certain  passages  in  Vol- 
taire and  Rousseau,  which  I  intended  to  read  to  her,  when  she  would 
be  older,  believing  that  the  reading  of  those  passages  would  undo,  in 
one  day,  all  that  the  nuns  would  have  eftected  in  years.  J  had 
brought  these  books  with  me,  as  weapons  of  defence,  in  case  the 


l82 


AN  KNCYCLOP/E-IDIC   NUN. 


1 


I 
t 

i  [ 
ii 

j.     1 

!  i 

1 

' 

mins  should  attack  me.  I  felt,  that  it  was  my  duty  not  to  bring  con 
fusion  into  their  midst,  unless  they  should  choose  to  bring  it  down 
upon  themselves  ;  and  that  was  my  reason  for  keeping  these  l)ook;4 
so  well  guarded. 

To  my  surprise,  no  one  ever  said  a  word  to  me  about  religion, 
unless  I  introduced  the  subject  myself,  and  even  then  they  appeared 
rather  disinclined  to  converse  with  me  upon  it.  I  saw,  that  they  were 
all  happy  and  contented,  and  I  soon  became  more  curious  to  know 
their  views,  than  they  seemed  willing  to  tell  me. 

The  day  after  my  arrival  in  the  convent  the  Mother  Sui>erior  intro- 
duced me  to  a  religious,  whose  name  was  Madam  Marie  de  St.  Paul. 
She  was  a  fine  scholar,  well  versed  in  history  and  general  literature. 
She  seemed  to  me  like  a  living  encyclopfcdia.  She  was  always  ready 
to  answer  any  question  or  give  any  date,  no  matter  how  remote  or 
obscure  the  fact  inquired  about  might  be.  Sometimes  she  would  sit 
down  and  instruct  me  in  history,  much  in  the  same  way  as  one  would 
relate  a  story  to  a  child,  to  impress  the  events  more  vividly  on  my 
mind.  At  the  same  time  she  would  delineate  the  striking  traits  of 
character  of  the  personages  in  the  events  of  which  she  spoke,  and 
she  would  do  it  more  graphically,  than  any  biographer  I  had  ever  read. 

My  friends  thronged  to  see  me  in  my  convent  home.  Laferriere, 
before  he  left  for  his  chateau,  drove  out  nearly  every  afternoon. 

I  had  more  peace  of  mind,  than  1  had  had  since  the  night  Laferriere 
told  me,  that  our  marriage  must  be  deferred  until  after  his  daughter's 
death.  Yet  I  was  not  happy,  and,  at  times,  I  w'as  miserable.  Jii 
spite  of  all  I  coidd  do,  I  found  it  impossible  to  forget  my  cruel  dis- 
appointment, and  every  time,  that  the  thought  of  it  came  to  me,  it 
would  send  an  acute  pain  through  my  heart. 

I  frequently  received  letters  from  Laferriere  after  he  left  Paris. 
In  one  of  my  letters  to  him  I  mentioned,  that  it  was  my  intention  to 
make  the  convent  my  home  for  at  least  a  few  months  ;  since,  although 
I  was  by  no  means  happy  in  it,  yet  I  was  far  less  miserable  than  in 
the  world.     Li  reply  I  received  the  following  philosophical  answer : 

"Chateau  DE  Flechkres, /iw^wj/ 24M,  1867. 
"My  dear  Child, 

"Life  is  an  incessant  combat  between  good  and  evil — an  eager 

struggle  between  our  instincts  and  our   moral  principles.     Nature 

seeks  to  drag  us  down,  and  divine  law  and  social  respect  hold  us 

back.     What  you  feel  in  the  icy  atmosphere  of  your  convent,  I  llnd 


CRUMBS    OF    COMFORT, 


183 


ugust  2^t/i,  1867. 


in  the  midst  of  the  smiling  fields,  and,  in  siiite  of  my  rustic  life,  I 
have  a  void  within.  You  are  not  hero,  and  there  is  nothing,  that  can 
take  your  ])lace.  I  try  in  vain  to  withdraw  myself  from  youf 
iniliience  ;  it  governs  me  still,  and  you  remain  a  want,  a  necessity  of 
my  life.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  sufters,  my  loved  daughter ; 
like  you  I  am  stricken  to  the  heart  with  grief  and  regret.  Never- 
theless, you  can  always  rely  upon  the  delicacy  of  my  sentiments,  and 
may  rest  assured,  that  I  will  not  try  to  oppose  your  resolutions. 
You  will  always  do  what  pleases  you  best,  and  I  will  never  ask  you 
to  sacrifice  your  peace  and  your  worldly  reputation  for  me.  As  we 
cannot  make  the  world  over  again,  we  must  conform  to  its  laws.  It 
is  hard,  but  it  is  necessary  for  a  woman  ;  and  you  know  I  love  you 
too  much,  not  to  hold  your  peace  and  reputation  before  all  else.  My 
poor  darling,  may  the  sacrifice  we  make  give  us  calmness  of  mind 
and  peace  of  heart ;  and  the  thought,  that  you  are,  if  not  happy,  at 
least  peaceful,  will  console  me  a  little  for  our  sad  separation. 

"  My  daughter  is  at  present  suffering  such  oppression,  that  she 
cannot  lie  down ;  she  is  obliged  to  pass  the  nights  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair. It  is  a  heart-rending  sight ;  but,  what  makes  it  still  more  sad, 
neither  time  nor  remedies  can  be  of  any  avail.  It  is  an  organic  dis- 
ease, which  can  only  terminate  with  her  life.  You  will  understand 
how  this  saddens  our  home.  You  see,  my  dear  child,. that  life  is 
painful  for  all,  and  one  is  wrong  to  think  one's  self  alone  in  suffering. 
Grief  is  the  universal  law  of  humanity. 

"  Continue  to  calm  yourself,  dear  child ;  be  courageous  and 
patient.  You  may  strengthen  yourself  with  certainty  of  my  affec- 
tion, which  will  never  change,  and  will  watch  over  you  under  all 
circumstances.  You  are  my  daughter,  my  sister,  my  all — all  that  is 
sweet  and  good  in  life,  all  that  attracts,  charms,  and  consoles.  May 
we  soon  meet  again,  my  child ;  I  already  count  the  days,  which 
separate  me  from  yoa. 

"  Laferriere." 


One  day  I  wrote  to  him  complaining  bitterly, 
the  following  letter  : 


In  reply  I  received 


"My  dear  Chii-d, 

"  I  have  just  received  your  letter.  It  is  so  sad,  that  I  hasten  to 
send  you  a  few  words  of  consolation  and  encouragement.  Do  not 
grieve  so,  my  darling :  it  is  your  loneliness,  that  makes  you  melan 


1 84 


CLOISTERED   HAPPINESS. 


\*V4 


choly ; — do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  ovcrcomir  by  it.  1  never  tnid 
you,  that  a  convent  was  a  ganlcn  of  joy  and  delight.  1  leave  such 
exaggerated  expressions  to  the  I'rincess.  I  always  looked  upon  your 
entrance  into  the  convent  as  a  severe  and  difticult  trial.  It  is  useless 
for  the  I'rincess,  who  is  so  ingenuous  and  good,  to  extol  the  delights 
and  happiness  of  the  convent :  1  do  not  partake  of  her  religious 
admiration.  Convents  suit  tiiose  best,  who  are  brought  up  in  them, 
in  dread  of  evil  and  in  horror  of  sin.  The  good  young  souls  of  the 
nuns  believe  themselves  lost  beyond  the  sacred  walls  of  their 
< '  >ister  ;  they  have  no  idea  of  family  life.  I  have  no  wish  to  make 
your  refuge  distasteful  to  you  :  1  hope  and  i)ray,  that  you  may  finil 
peace  of  heart  and  tran(iuillity  of  mind  there  ;  but  the  struggle  is  not 
over  ;  nature  is  not  yet  crushed  in  you  ;  you  have  not  yet  overco  iie 
the  flesh, — and  you  remain  a  woman  to  the  very  tips  of  your  hngers ! 

"  My  poor  friend,  you  are  right  in  loving  your  child ;  this  strong 
affection  will  give  an  aim — an  aliment  to  your  life.  Like  all  otiier 
affections  in  this  world,  maternal  love  is  subject  to  trials  and  decep- 
tion ;  but  the  ingenuous  smiles  and  sweet  caresses  of  a  child  have 
power  to  efface  many  sorrows.  I  have  known  this  happiness ; 
to-day  I  have  only  the  bitter  remembrance  of  it. 

"  It  would  be  better  for  you  and  for  me,  if  we  were  married 
and  lived  together ;  but  there  are  insurmountable  obstacles  at  this 
time.  I  cannot  ask  you  to  sacrifice  your  rei)utation  ; — it  is  natural, 
that  you  should  not ;  and  since  I  cannot  sacrifice  my  family  to  yon, 
let  us  wait  awhile  for  better  days  ;  let  us  draw  the  utmost  advantage 
from  the  present  situation,  and,  above  all,  let  us  love  one  another 
with  perfect  confidence. 

"  If  religion  fails  to  give  you  resignation,  call  to  your  akl  jour /ric mis, 
the  philosophers.  They  will  all  tell  you,  that  the  highest  proof  of 
wisdom  is  to  endure  one's  lot  without  repining  or  discouragement. 

"  Try,  my  darling,  to  strengthen  yourself,  and  to  recover  your 
energy,  so  that,  on  my  return,  I  may  find  you  well  in  body  and  in 
mind. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  your  request.  I  am  happy,  my  dear  child,  tc 
oblige  your  friends  ;  and  you  may  be  assured,  that,  imder  all  circum 
stances,  your  recommendation  will  precede  all  others. 

"Adieu,  dear  child  ; 

;    ,  .  "I  am  ever  yours, 

,  "Laferriere." 


i 


"THE   URLAD   OK    LIFE.' 


185 


.AFERKIERE.' 


I  tried  every  means  to  attach  my  chilj  to  mc  ;  1  ut,  in  spite  of  all 
my  endeavors,  she  always,  preferred  the  Mother  Su  >eri()r  to  nie.  She 
would  sit  on  the  mother's  lap,  and  fall  asleep  with  her  head  reclining 
un  her  bosom,  while  witli  me  she  never  seemed  to  feel  at  ease. 

Sometimes,  while  sitting  on  my  knee,  she  would  put  her  hand  on 
my  heart,  and  say:  "Mamma,  1  wish  you  had  Jesus. there,  then  I 
would  love  to  lie  there."  She  had  repeated  the  same  thing  to  me  sc 
often,  that  I  one  day  asked  Madam  Xavier  what  she  meant. 

Ahukun  Xavier  then  ex[)lained  to  me  the  real  presence  of  our 
Lord  in  the  Eucharist  ;  and  she  told  me,  that  it  was  that  bread  of 
life,  wlucli  they  received  at  the  altar,  that  gave  them  strength  to  re- 
main true  to  their  vocation. 

"Jt  is  simi)ly  your  faith,"  said  I,  "that  makes  the  bread  and  wine 
become  for  yon  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ."  "  Ah,  no,"  she  replied  ; 
"  for  our  Lord  said  :  '  T/iis  is  my  body  ; '  and  '  T/iis  is  my  blood.'  It  is 
not  a  receiving  of  mere  symbols  of  our  Lord,  but  this  most  intimate 
personal  union  with  Him,  that  gives  ns  strength  to  overcome  our  nat- 
ural inclinations,  to  leave  all  and  follow  Him,  and  to  be  ready  to  die 
for  Him,  as  the  martyrs  have  done.  No,  it  is  our  Lord,  whether  I 
choose  to  believe  it  or  not." 

Said  I  :  "  If  I  should  receive  it,  would  it  be  just  as  much  the  Lord 
to  me,  as  if  I  were  a  Christian  ?  " 

"It  would  be  the  body  and  blood  of  our  Lord  to  you,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  but  you  would  not  receive  the  spiritual  benefit  unless  you 
were  rendered  worthy  to  receive  Him  by  the  virtues  of  Faith  and 
Charity.  The  possession  of  the  latter  virtue  necessarily  implies  the 
cleansing  of  the  heart  from  sin.  And  if  we  receive  our  Lord  unwor- 
thily, we  receive  Him,  as  the  Apostles  tell  us,  to  our  own  danmation." 

"  What  is  sin  ?  "  I  asked.  She  replied  :  "  Sin  comprehends  an 
infinity  of  evils,  which  I  could  never  enumerate ;  yet  it  may  be  sum- 
med up  in  the  statement,  that  it  is  a  violation  of  that  law,  which  re- 
(juires,  that  we  should  believe  God,  and  love  Him  for  His  own  sake, 
and  love  our  neighbor  for  God's  sake.  And  therefore  when  we  injure 
our  neighbor,  when  we  nourish  hatred  in  our  hearts  against  him,  when 
we  refuse  to  forgive  those,  who  injure  us,  and  when  we  feel  envious 
of  those,  whom  it  has  pleased  God  to  favor  more  than  ourselves 
whether  temporarily  or  spiritually,  then  do  we  sin  also  against  God." 

"  Well,"  I  insisted,  "  I  love  my  neighbor ;  I  hate  no  one,  I  forgive 
everybody,  I  am  not  enviuus.    Why  should  I  not  eat  of  this  bread  ?  " 


'il 


\n 


1 86 


WRESTLING    IN    PRAYER    FOR   ME. 


4 


•'  I  would  that  you  could,"  she  said,  "  for  I  can  never  be  happj 
until  you  do.  15ut  you  must  love  your  neighbor  for  dod's  sake,  and 
must  first  believe,  and  love  our  Lord,  before  you  can  receive  Him 
wortiiily." 

"  15ut,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  believe."  She  firmly  replied  ;  **  You  rcn/l 
bclia'e  ;  "  and  then,  as  if  recollecting  herself,  she  started  to  leave  inc. 
I  tried  to  detain  her,  and  begged  her  to  continue  to  talk  with  inc. 
"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  must  go  to  the  chapel  and  pray."  I  implored 
her  to  remain  with  me  a  little  longer,  and  reproached  her  for  not 
loving  me  enough  to  make  such  a  trifling  sacrifice.  "  You  force  inc 
to  betray  to  you  my  secret,"  she  replied  :  "  I  love  you  more  than 
you  can  ever  know,  and  I  promised  our  Lord,  that  I  would  make  the 
Way  of  the  Cross  every  day  for  your  conversion,  until  you  are  con- 
verted ;  for  I  must  have  your  soul ; — I  want  it  to  ofier  to  our  Lord." 

I  accompanied  her  to  the  chapel,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner  to  wail 
for  her,  expecting,  that  she  would  hurry,  knowing  my  impatience. 

1  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  Madam  Xavier  meant  by 
"  making  the  Way  of  the  Cross  ;  "  and  when  I  saw  her  go  and  kneel 
before  a  picture,  and  remain  there  for  a  few  minutes,  with  her  body 
almost  prostrate  on  the  floor,  and  then  repeat  the  same  thing  before 
each  one  of  thirteen  similar  pictures  distributed  around  the  walls  of 
the  chapel,  I  took  such  compassion  on  her,  that  I  began  to  pray  for 
lier ;  but  when  the  thought  struck  me,  that  she  was  doing  all  this  for  ine, 
I  was  in  agony. 

When  she  had  finished,  she  came  to  me,  her  fiice  radiant  with 
smiles,  although  I  could  see,  that  she  had  been  weeping.  This  was 
too  much  for  me,  and  as  soon  as  we  left  the  chapel,  I  said  to  her  :  "  I 
will  never  forgive  you,  if  you  repeat  this  thing.  For  what  effect  can 
it  have  upon  me,  that  you  should  go  every  day  and  remain  with  your 
body  bent  to  the  ground  for  an  hour  before  those  paintings  ;  no  mat- 
ter what  they  represent  ?  I  pitied  you  so,  that  it  was  as  much  as  I 
could  do  to  keep  from  snatching  you  oft"  tiie  floor."  My  ignorance  of 
the  Catholic  forms  of  worship  amused  her  so  much,  that  she  sat  down 
on  the  grass  and  began  to  laugh  like  a  child. 

"  Well,  what  must  you  think  of  us  all  here  ! "  she  e.vclainicd. 
Said  I :  *'  I  am  sure,  that  you  are  all  good  ;  but  1  am  not  so  sure, 
that  you  are  all  in  your  right  minds."  She  tokl  me,  that  she  had  per- 
formed the  same  devotion  every  day,  since  I  had  been  among  thcin, 
and  she  would  continue  it  until  I  was  converted.     Said  1 :  "It  is  iin 


I  ■ii 


11 


PILGRIMAGES. 


187 


possible  to  make  me  believe  ;  and  you  are  afflicting  both  of  us  for 
nothing."  She  replied  :  *'  I  do  not  blame  you  for  not  believing  ;  for 
how  can  you  believe  in  what  you  know  nothing  about  ?  I  know  you 
cannot  helj)  your  unbelief ;  therefore  I  am  imploring  our  Lord  to  do 
for  you,  what  you  cannot  do  for  yourself" 

She  then  explained  to  me,  that  when  she  made  the  Way  of  the  Cross, 
she  did  so  to  unite  herself  with  the  sufferings  of  our  Lord  on  his  way 
to  Calvary. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


THE   WAY   OF    THE    CROSS. 

AfADAM  Xavier  in  explaining  the  stations  of  the  cross,  gave  me 
to  imderstand,  that  this  pious  practice  had  its  birth  in  the  very  cradle 
of  Christianity.  She  related  how,  after  the  ascension  of  our  Lord, 
it  was  the  practice  of  the  early  Christians,  who  resided  at  Jerusalem, 
to  visit  the  consecrated  spots,  which  had  witnessed  the  sufferings  of 
our  Saviour,  and  which  had  been  sprinkled  with  His  blood.  "  These 
visits  soon  became  pilgrimages,"  she  said,  "  and  for  centuries,  it  was 
the  constant  practice  of  the  faithful  to  visit  the  scenes  of  Christ's 
mission  and  passion.  ]?ut  when  the  Holy  Land  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  infidels,  and  became  difficult  of  access,  images  were  made 
emblematical  of  these  holy  places,  so  that  the  faithful,  by  kneeling 
before  them,  could  make  this  journey  to  Jerusalem  in  spirit,  and  thus 
he  able  to  meditate  on  the  agonies,  that  our  Lord  suffered  for  our 
salvation  in  the  last  hours  of  His  life." 

"  This  devotion  is  known,  as  the  Way  of  the  Cross,  and  will  be 
found  in  all  our  chapels  and  churches.  We  only  make  use  of  these 
pictures  and  images  to  remind  us  of  our  Lord's  sufferings." 

It  was  the  custom  of  Madanr  Xavier,  before  she  started  on  the 
sorrowful  Way  of  the  Cross,  to  say  the  following  prayer  : 

"  Let  us  leave,  O  my  soul,  the  vain  tumults  of  this  world,  and  lei 
us  lly  to  the  desert  and  into  the  sweet  solitude  of  the  heart  of  Jesus ; 
let  us  meditate  on  His  sorrows  and  on  His  love  :  His  sorrows,  that 
we  may  learn  to  suffer  all  things  for  His  sake,  and  His  love,  that  we 
may  despise  all  other  love. 


'■•  i 


1 88 


CHRIST   BEFORE  PILATE. 


'  O  divine  Master,  on  the  way  to  Calvary,  imprint  in  my  heart  Thy 
sav  >d  wounds,  that  I  may  weep  with  Thee  and  with  Mary.  May  I 
ever  seek  Thy  face  and  Thy  pardon  for  my  sins  in  the  dolorous  way 
of  tlie  cross  !  and  may  I  ever  lind  Thee  under  the  eucharistic  vail, 
my  daily  bread,  where,  through  love.  Thou  immolatest  Thyself  again, 
and,  with  a  call  that  is  full  of  heavenly  tenderness.  Thou  invitest  all 
mankind  to  come  and  taste  of  Thee  !  How  good  Thou  art,  dearest 
Saviour,  to  say :  '  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye,  that  labor  and  are  heavy- 
laden,  and  I  ivill  give  you  rest ! ' 

•'  Here  I  am,  O  Lord,  because  Thou  hast  called  me.  *  Thy  ta- 
bernacle shall  shade  me  from  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  it  shall 
be  my  covert  to  shelter  me  from  the  rain  and  the  tempest  of  the 
night.' "     (Is.  iv.) 

She  would  then  move  to  the  right  of  the  altar,  and  kneel  before  a 
picture,  which  represented  the  Saviour  standing  before  Pilate,  where 
He  is  condemned  to  death  ;  and  she  would  say  : 

"  '  O  my  soul,  why  art  thou  sad,  and  why  art  thou  disquieted  within 
me?'   (Ps.  xlii.) 

"  Behold  the  Saviour  of  the  world  standing  like  a  criminal,  before 
His  creature,  who  condemns  Him. 

"In  taking  on  Himself  that  sentence  of  death,  which  resounds  with- 
out ceasing  through  my  sinful  being.  He  tempers  my  just  alarms  by 
a  firm  hope,  and  changes  into  a  real  life,  that  death  of  each  day,  the 
slow,  dolorous  destruction  of  myself,  as  He  also  will  that  final  tlcath 
in  my  last  hour.  He  has  assured  me  happiness  and  the  resurrection 
of  my  soul.  O  redeemed  soul,  why  art  thou  sad  ?  and  why  art 
thou  troubled  ? 

**  I  will  ever  remain  near  Thy  tabernacle,  and,  uniting  myself  to 
Thy  resigned  and  silent  heart,  which  is  sad  unto  death,  1  will  ever 
say  to  Thee  in  ail  my  trials :  '  Here  I  am,  O  my  God,  to  do  Thy 
will.' "  (Ps.  xxxix). 


;«i 


At  the  second  picture,  which  represented  the  Saviour  receiving  His 
cross,  she  would  say  : 

"There  our  beloved  Saviour  stands,  inclining  with  love  to  receive 
the  instrument  of  my  salvation  ! 

"  It  is  thus,  that  he  loves  me  !  O  my  insensible  soul,  to  refuse 
sorrow,  humiliation,  and  sacrifice  ! O  Lord  Jesus,  give  me 


THE   MOTHER   OF   SORROWS. 


189 


u  disquietecl  within 
;  a  criminal,  before 


that  cross  stained  with  Thy  blood  !  that  cross,  that  I  have  so  often 
rejected  with  horror,  or  dragged  after  me  so  languidly,  that  1  have  left 
the  heaviest  portion  to  Thee.  Whatever  may  be  my  cross  of  to-day,  or 
my  cross  of  each  day,  if  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  crucify  my  body  or  to 
drink  the  chalice  filled  with  bitterness  of  soul ;  in  union  with  Thy  love, 
'Master,  1  will  follow  Thee  whithersoever  Thou  goest.'  "    (St.  John.) 


The  third  station  was  a  picture  representing  the  Saviour,  where  he 
fell  beneath  His  cross  for  the  first  time.  Before  it  she  would  kneel 
and  say : 

"  '  Take  pity  on  me,  Lord,  because  I  am  weak.'     (Ps.  vi.) 

"  Pusillanimous  and  distrusting  soul,  it  is  to  raise  thy  dejected 
spirits,  that  Jesus  succumbs  under  the  weigiit  of  His  cross. 

"  Why  dost  thou  fear  the  thorns  that  beset  thy  path,  since  Thy 
divine  Master,  to  encourage  thee,  has  fallen  on  the  sorrowful  way? 
Remember,  that  thy  strength  is  in  thy  weakness.  Count  not  on  thy 
virtue,  which  is  more  fragile,  than  a  reed  shaken  by  the  wind ;  but 
know  also,  that  Jesus  has  retarded  His  progress  to  tender  thee  a  help- 
ing hand,  and  to  receive  thy  repentance. 

"  Yes,  dearest  Saviour,  after  all  my  foils,  I  will  hope  in  Thee  still. 
I  will  ever  remember  Thy  sweet  mercies,  and  I  will  say  to  Thee : 
'  It  is  well.  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  humbled  me.'  (I's.  cxxiii.)  'But  I  can 
do  all  things  in  Him,  who  giveth  me  strength.'  "     (St.  Paul.) 


At  the  fourth  station  was  a  picture,  which  represented  the  Saviour, 
where  He  meets  His  Mother. 

1  will  never  forget  the  look  of  tender  devotion,  which  this  saintly 
soul  cast  upon  this  picture  representing  Mary  following  her  divine 
Son  on  his  road  of  sorrow.     She  would  then  pray  : 

■■'Love  is  stronger  than  death,  and  Mary  will  follow  her  Son  U[)  to 
Calvary;  and  all  you,  who  are  now  conunitting  evil  on  the  road 
of  life,  consider,  if  there  was  ever  a  sorrow,  which  eciualled  that  of 
those  two  hearts  here  confounded  in  one  mutual  agony. 

"Afflicted  Afolher,  dost  thou  recogni/e  thy  beloved  Son,  the  sweet 
child  of  thy  peaceful  home  of  Nazareth,  with  his  face  now  smeared 
with  mire  and  blood  ?  Ah  !  this  sorrowful  look,  which  seems  to 
invoke  a  mother's  help,  has  pierced  thy  soul ! 


f  I  H'i , 


iT' 

' 

11 

190 


THE   CY  REN  IAN. 


"O  Mary,  Mother,  pray  for  me,  that  I  may  weep  with  Thee,  and 
that  I  too  may  ever  meet  that  look  mingled  with  tears,  in  the  hour  of 
temptation  and  sacrifice,  and  may  it  ever  kindle  in  my  soul  a  true 
';ontrition  and  a  fervent  love  ! " 


When  she  came  to  the  fifth  station,  which  represented  Simon  the 
Cyrenian  helping  Jesus  to  carry  His  cross,  she  would  use  the  follow- 
ing prayer : 

" '  And  I  looked  in  vain  for  one,  that  would  grieve  with  me,  but 
there  was  none  ;  and  for  one,  that  would  comfort  me,  and  I  found 
none !'     (Ps.  Ixviii.) 

"  Here  I  am,  divine  Jesu?,  moved  and  vanquished  by  the  touching 
moan  of  Thy  unknown  love.  I  fain  would  raise  that  other  heavier 
cross,  which  weighs  so  sorrowfully  on  Thy  forsaken  heart.  It  is  tiie 
cross  of  my  sins  and  my  indifference.  The  Cyrenian,  in  being  con- 
strained to  follow  Thee,  drew  light  and  life  from  one  of  Thy  tender 
looks  ;  which  teaches  me,  that  I  cannot  be  near  Thee  and  walk  under 
the  shadow  of  Thy  cross,  without  recognizing  Thee  and  loving  Thee. 

"  In  constant  forgetfulness  of  myself,  and  in  the  silence  of  resigna- 
tion, may  I  soothe  with  an  humble  and  disinterested  charity  those, 
who  suffer,  aiid  may  nothing  escape  from  my  broken  soul,  but  the 
Jia/  of  its  submission  and  the  alleluia  of  its  gratitude ! " 


"The  sixth  station  represented  Veronica,  the  ])ious  woman  who 
broke  through  the  crowd  and  wiped  the  Saviour's  face.  Before  this 
painting  the  sup[)licant  would  exclaim  : 

"  'Whosoever  loves  Me,  him  will  my  Father  love,  and  we  will  come 
and  make  our  abode  with  him.'  (St.  John.)  O  sweet  Jesus  !  O  ten- 
der Jesus !  I  will  not  leave  Thee  without  consolation  on  Thy  way  to 
Calvary.  I  will  approach  Thee,  Lord,  and  I  will  seek  Thy  face.  I 
will  raise  Thy  crown  of  thorns  to  place  it  on  my  proud  and  guilty 
head,  while  I  wipe  the  sweat  from  Thy  brow.  O  sweet  Master,  I 
dare  to  tell  Thee,  that  I  love  Thee,  and  I  will  preserve  forever  in  my 
heart  the  remembrance  of  Thy  adorable  face.  Hut  Thou  wilt  not 
leave  me  an  orphan,  and,  happier  than  Veronica,  I  will  not  only  possess 
Thy  image,  but  I  will  receive  Thy  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Eucharist, 
which  shall  be  my  treasure  during  my  exile,  to  refresh  my  hungry  soul. 


THE   WOMEN   OF   JERUSALEM. 


191 


'"The  sparrow  hath  found  herself  a  house,  and  the  turtle  a  nest, 
but  I,  O  Jesus,  will  remain  in  Thy  tabernacle,  and  shall  be  protected 
under  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings.'  "     (Ps.  Ix.) 


The  seventh  station  represented  our  Tord  falling  for  the  second 
time  beneath  His  cross.  Before  that  sad  picture  she  would  say : 
'"Even  though  He  kill  me,  yet  will  I  hope  in  Him.'     (Job.) 

"  In  my  foolish  pride  I  forgot  the  benefits  of  my  God,  and  I  sought 
for  liappiness  in  myself  and  in  the  creatures  of  a  day.  Then  bitter- 
ness attached  itself  to  my  steps.  l>ut  I  met  my  Saviour,  succumbing 
under  the  weight  of  my  ingratitude,  and  I  recalled  to  my  mind  His 
mercy,  and  I  said  :  '  Even  though  He  kill  me,  yet  will  I  hope  in 
Him.'  1  will  rise  from  my  abasement,  and  1  will  return  to  my 
Eather,  as  I  am  ever  sure  to  find  in  His  bosom  sufficient  love  and 
])ity  to  cure  me  ;  and  though  I  fall  every  hour  of  my  life,  every  hour 
will  I  pour  my  misery  into  His  heart,  the  abyss  itself  of  pardon  ;  for 
I  am  filled  with  confidence  by  those  sweet  words,  which  ever  resound 
from  the  depths  of  His  tabernacle  :  *  I  tell  Thee  and  assure  Thee, 
that  even  when  a  mother  should  forget  her  offspring,  yet  will  I  not 
forget  thee.'  "     (Is.  xlix.) 


Before  the  eighth  station,  which  :  ;presenled  our  Lord  consoling 
the  women  of  Jerusalem,  this  goo^  woman  would  thus  address 
God: 

"  '  The  poor  mrai  cried,  and  the  Lord  heard  him  ;  and  helped  him 
out  of  his  troubles.'     (Tsa.  xxxiii.) 

"  In  an  arid  land,  without  a  road  and  without  water,  my  dejected 
soul  refused  to  be  comforted.  Ikit  I  remembered  my  God,  and  I 
said  .  '  Do  not  leave  me.  Lord,  but  hasten  to  help  me  ;  lest  I  succumb 
and  remain  buried  in  the  region  of  the  shadcrw  of  death.'  But  I  do 
not  wish  for  such  consolation,  as  will  take  away  compunction  :  feed 
me  rather  with  the  bread  of  tears  during  my  exile,  and  with  the  sighs 
of  humiliated  and  repenting  love.  Oh  !  that  the  tears  of  my  contrite 
heart  might  fall  day  and  night  on  the  eucharistic  heart  of  my  God, 
that  I  might  hear  in  the  night  of  my  soul  this  word  of  life  :  *  Blessed 
are  they  who  weep,  and  who  weep  for  their  sins,  for  they  shall  be  com- 
forted.' "     (St.  Matt.) 


192 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   CALVARY. 


Before  the  ninth  station,  which  was  a  painting  of  our  Lord,  as  He  falls^ 
for  tlie  third  time,  beneath  His  cross,  my  holy  friend  would  exclaim: 

"Jesus  has  now  caught  a  glimpse  of  Calvary!  He  has  counted 
my  falls  across  the  shadows  of  time.  He  has  seen  my  perjured  soul, 
defifed  in  the  mire  of  earthly  affections,  and  wearied  in  the  way  of 
iniquity.  He  has  found  me  deaf  to  the  call  of  His  love,  blind  to  the 
rays  of  His  grace,  insensible  to  the  sword  of  His  justice  ;  and,  stagger- 
ing under  the  weight  of  my  sins,  my  Saviour  falls  for  the  third  time. 
]^ut  He  still  lives  to  raise  nie  with  Him.  Yet  He  is  wounded  that  I 
should  ever  have  distrusted  His'merciful  heart,  that  never  despaired 
of  my  return.  He  has  kej^t  for  me  a  place  in  the  Sanctuary  of  the 
eucharistic  banquet,  and  He  bids  niQ  come,  by  these  consoling  words; 
'  Although  the  vestment  of  thy  iniquities  be  as  red  as  scarlet,  I  will 
make  it  as  white  as  snow ; '  '  The  bruised  reed  I  will  not  break,  and 
the  smoking  flax  I  will  not  quench.'  "     (Is.  xlii.) 


Kneeling  before  the  tenth  station,  which  represented  our  Lord 
being  stripped  of  His  garments,  this  spouse  of  Christ  would  cry  out 
in  agony  of  heart : 

"'The  sorrows  of  death  have  compassed  me.'  (Ps.  cxiv.)  'But 
He  remained  mute  before  those,  who  sheared  Him.'     Is.  Ixxxv.) 

"The  hour  has  come  ;  that  hour  so  ardently  desired  by  my  (lod. 
The  pitiless  executioners  strip  Him  of  the  last  robe,  which  covers  His 
wounds. 

"  Alas,  O  Jesus  !  those  stripes  and  bruises  !  is  it  not  my  passions, 
my  guilty  desires,  my  resistances  to  grace,  which  cause  Thee  this  ig- 
nominy? Ah,  1  pray  Tiiee,  make  of  my  heart  an  altar,  and  inuiio- 
late  thereon  each  day  whatever  displeases  Thee  in  me.  Oh,  that  I 
might  alleviate  the  shame  and  indigence  of  my  Cod,  thus  stripjied  of 
His  seamless  garment,  and  that  I  might  enrobe  Him  in  a  vesture 
woven  with  my  sacritice's  and  renunciations,  so  that  in  the  morning 
of  my  days,  when  His  eucharistic  heart  reposes  in  my  own,  I  might 
say  to  Him,  '  Lord  Jesus,  make  of  my  whole  being  a  Calvary,  where 
nothing  but  ruins  remain,  that  I  may  no  longer  live,  but  that  Thou 
alone  mayest  live  in  me.' "     (St.  Paul.) 


The  eleventh  station  represented  Jesus  being  nailed  to  the  cross. 
Here  the  devout  soul  would  say  : 


led  to  the  cross. 


TIIOU   HAST  LOVED   ME   UNTO   DEATH. 


193 


"  '  They  have  piei  ^ed  my  hands  and  my  feet,  and  they  have  num- 
bered all  my  bones.'  '  I  am  without  strength,  I  am  i)Oured  out  like 
water,  and  my  heart  is  like  wax  melting  in  the  midst  of  my  bowels.' 
(Ps.  xxi.) 

"  From  the  depths  of  my  guilty  soul,  I  hear  resounding  the  blows 
of  the  hammer  which  strikes  the  holy  Victim.  Alas  !  pride,  vanity, 
and  self-love,  which  involved  me  in  the  tortuous  ways  of  iniquity,  are 
llie  murderous  nails,  which  attach  Him  to  the  cross  ! 

"  May  the  blood  of  that  Victim,  who  blesses  and  pardons,  follow 
my  obdurate  heart,  and  may  I  draw  joy  from  '  the  fountains  of  the 
Saviour.'     (Is.  xii.) 

"  O  my  crucifix  !  Consolation  of  my  exile  !  Image  and  remembrance 
of  the  spotless  Lamb,  which  is  each  day  sacriticed  on  our  altars 
for  my  sins !  Always  be  my  treasure  !  In  the  hour  of  anguish,  may 
it  suffice  for  me  to  look  only  at  thee  to  draw  from  the  wounds  of 
Jesus  resignation  and  courage.'  And  when  by  Communion  He  will 
come  into  my  heart,  may  I  apply  to  His  wounds  of  love  the  balm 
of  my  obedience,  the  myrrh  of  my  repentance  and  voluntary  poverty, 
and  with  these  three  nails,  that  my  repenting  love  has  chosen,  may  I 
live  crucified  to  the  world,  as  the  world  is  crucified  to  me."    (St.  Paul.) 


Jesus  dying  on  the  cross  was  painted  on  the  twelfth  station.  Be- 
fore it  she  would  thus  pour  forth  her  soul : 

"  I  '  will  dwell  on  the  mountain  of  myrrh,  and  on  the  hill  of  incense, 
until  the  shadows  of  the  night  retire.'     (Cant.) 

"  In  that  dark  hour  of  anguish  on  Calvary,  a  supreme  blessing  fell 
on  my  soul  with  the  last  look  of  Jesus.  The  soldier's  lance  has 
pierced  His  heart.  Ah!  is  it  not  the  spear  of  my  transgressions, 
that  has  given  to  my  Saviour  this  last  and  cruel  wound?  But 
He  has  asked  pardon  of  His  Father  for  me ;  He  has  given  me  a 
mother,  and  in  the  distress  and  abandonment  of  His  last  hour  He 
loresaw  and  wished  to  cure  the  desolation  of  my  repenting  soul. 

"O  Jesus!  who  hast  loved  me  unto  death.  Thou  art  my  ransom. 
1  am  the  price  of  Thy  blood.  Remember  me,  and  may  my  death 
resemble  Tiine.  Again  I  hear  Thy  voice,  O  my  Saviour,  and  Thou 
sayest :  '  I  thirst.'  Yes,  dearest  Saviour,  I  hear  Thy  cry,  and  from 
the  depths  of  my  solitude  1  would  be  an  apostle  by  prayer  and  suf- 
fering. I  would  offer  to  Thee  souls,  which  alone  can  quench  the 
9 


"   f 


194 


THE  SEPULCHRE. 


burning  thirst  of  Thy  heart, — that  heart,  which  I  implore  Thee  to  give 
me  for  my  asyUini  and  my  home,  so  that  when  dying  I  may  ex- 
claim with  Thee,  '  Father !  into  Thy  hands  1  commit  my  spirit ! '  " 
(Matt.) 


The  thirteenth  station  represented  Jesus  being  taken  down  from 
the  cross  and  placed  in  the  arms  of  His  Mother.  Here  she  addressed 
the  Mother  of  Sorrows  : 

"  And  Mary  remained  alone  with  her  sorrow.  O  solitude  of  Mary  ! 
who  can  tell  thy  desolation,  O  mother,  when  thy  tears  fell  in  silence 
on  the  face  of  Thy  beloved  Son,  whose  ear  was  deaf  to  a  mother's 
call  ?  Suffer,  dearest  mother,  my  sobr>  of  repentance  to  mingle  with 
thy  pious  and  holy  tears.  Oh,  let  me  know  more  and  more  how 
bitter  it  is  to  live  without  Jesus.  Alas;,  how  often  have  I  been  smit- 
ten as  grass,  and  my  heart  been  dried  up,  because  I  forgot  to  eat  my 
bread  ! '     (Psalms  ci.) 

"  O  my  daily  bread !  my  eucharistic  bread !  would  that  I  were 
abandoned  by  all  things,  and  that  Thou  alone  wert  my  only  posses- 
sion !  Do  not  refuse  this !  O  Mary,  Mother,  to  my  fainting  soul ! 
'dive  me  at  least  the  crumbs,  that  fall  from  the  table  of  my  Lord,  and 
give  me  to  drink  of  that  living  water,  which  springs  up  to  everlasting 
life.'"     (Matt.) 


The  fourteenth  and  last  station  represented  the  burial  of  the 
Saviour  of  mankind.  Here  Madam  Xavier  made  the  following 
touching  appeal  to  her  Spouse  and  Master : 

"  '  My  life  is  hidden  in  (lod  with  Jesus  Christ.'  (St.  Paul.)  The 
stone  is  rolled  against  the  door  of  the  sepulchre.  Come,  Lord  Jesus, 
come  and  bury  Thyself  in  my  soul  :  it  will  be  less  hard,  than  the 
stone  of  Thy  tomb.  Make  of  my  soul  a  new  and  hallowed  sepul- 
chre, cleansed  from  all  impurities,  and  cut  in  the  rock,  thus  making 
it  firm  and  immovable  in  Thy  love.  Make  it  a  glorious  sepulchre, 
which  the  death  of  sin  can  never  reach. 

"Take  from  me,  one  by  one,  my  fragile  earthly  supports.  Take 
back  the  gifts  that  Thou  hast  bestowed  upon  me,  and  which  1  abuse 
each  day.  May  all  crumble  !  may  everything  disappear  around  nie! 
All  1  ask  is  one  of  Thy  words,  one  of  Thy  looks,  one  pulsation  of 
Thy  heart  against  mine,  instead  of  earthly  esteem  and  human  affec- 
tions ;  for  the  face  of  the  earth  passes  away,  and  everything  thereon  is 


ore  Thee  to  give 
lying  1  may  ex- 
iiit  my  spirit ! '  " 


iken  clown  from 
ere  she  addressed 

soHtude  of  Mary ! 
ars  fell  in  silence 

af  to  a  molhor's 
ce  to  mingle  with 
e  and  more  how 
lave  I  been  sinit- 

forgot  to  eat  my 

)uld  that  I  were 
t  my  only  posses- 
«y  fainting  soul! 
le  of  my  Lord,  and 
;  up  to  everlasting 


the  burial  of  the 
ade  the  following 

(St.  Paul.)  The 
^ome,  Lord  Josus, 
^ss  hard,  than  the 
d  hallowed  scpul- 
rock,  thus  making 
;lorious  sepulchre, 

)'  supports.  Take 
md  which  1  abuse 
)pear  around  me! 
,  one  pulsation  of 
and  human  affec- 
srything  thereon  is 


t    ..» 


GENERAL   ROLLIN, 


GENERAL   ROLLIN. 


195 


but  vanity  and  Ailsehood.  Buried  in  the  tomb  of  this  hidden  Hfe,  may 
my  i)iirified  and  soHtary  heart  unite  with  Thine  own  in  the  Eucharist ! 
"(live  me  the  grace  to  live  Thy  Hfe,  and  to  die  witliout  ceasing 
Tliy  death,  during  the  fugitive  hour  of  my  exile,  and  Hke  a  bird  es- 
caped from  the  net  of  the  liunter,  I  will  fly  into  the  crevice  of  a  rock, 
and  there,  forgotten,  annihilated,  a  stranger  to  all,  let  me  live  and  die 
fore\er  hidden  in  Thee." 


fo,.'    •» 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

GENERAL   ROLLIN's    "AUNTS." — A   STUMBLING-BLOCK    REMOVED. 

When  we  left  the  chapel,  and  had  returned  to  the  garden,  I  said  to 
Madam  Xavier  :  "  Some  people  call  you  idolaters  for  kneeling  before 
these  pictures."  "Yes,"  she  replied,  "because  they  do  not  know 
our  interior  life  :  they  only  judge  us  from  the  exterior,  as  you  did  a 
little  wliile  ago.  With  us  everything  is  interior,  and  therefore  only 
interior  minds  can  understand  us." 

That  afternoon  General  Rollin  drove  out  to  see  me.  The  gen- 
eral was  a  man  over  seventy  years  of  age ;  he  was  adjutant-general 
of  the  palace,  and  occupied  the  first  floor  in  the  east  wing  of  the 
Tuileries.  He  had  always  been  a  man  of  the  world,  and  knew  as 
little  about  his  religion  as  many  Catholics  do.  We  were  walking  in 
the  garden,  when  the  thought  struck  me,  that  I  would  ask  him  how  it 
was  possible  for  him  to  believe  in  a  religion  so  contrary  to  reason. 
"General,"  I  asked,  "are  you  a  Roman  CathoHc?"  He  looked  at 
me  with  astonishment,  as  if  to  see  if  I  intended  to  insult  him,  and 
then,  knitting  his  eyebrows,  he  asked  me  :  "  What  do  you  take  me  to 
be?  do  you  think  I  am  a  Huguenot?"  Said  1 :  "General,  I  don't 
wish  to  offend  you  ;  but,  when  you  see  the  priest  raise  the  Host,  do 
you  really  believe  that  Host  to  be  the  real  body  of  Christ  ?  " 

He  withdrew  his  arm  from  mine,  struck  his  cane  firmly  to  the  earth, 
frowned  more  deeply,  and  then,  in  a  most  indignant  tone,  asked  me : 
"  Did  these  women  teach  you  that !  "  "  Yes,  they  did  ;  but,  of  course, 
I  could  not  beHeve  it."  "Well,"  said  he,  "you  did  well ;  but  you 
ought  to  leave  this  place,  or  they  will  make  a  fool  of  you.  I  never 
wanted  you  to  put  your  foot  here,  and  I  told  Laferriere  to  prevent 


\ 


196 


THE   GENERAL  S   LOVE. 


.  _  mm 


it,  if  he  could  ;  for  1  know  the  nuns.  Why,  do  you  know,  that  I  wag 
actually  bred  among  them  ?  1  had  three  aunts,  all  professed  nuns. 
Two  of  them  were  abbesses,  and  the  other  was  procuratress.  1  tell 
you  that  I  got  enough  of  them  in  my  youth  to  last  me  the  rest  of  my 
days.  They  are  crazy  themselves,  and  they  bewitch  everybody  who 
comes  within  shooting  distance  of  tiiem. 

"  I  once  fell  in  love  with  a  beautiful  girl ;  she  was  as  sweet  as  a 
flower,  and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  go  into  one  of  these  places 
for  a  week  before  she  would  decide  to  have  me.  I  was  fool  enougli 
to  consent  to  it,  and,  //lOfi  Dieu  !  that  was  the  last  [  ever  saw  of  her. 
It  has  given  me  an  anti-cloister  fever  that  I  shall  never  get  rid  of. 
Besides,  my  mother  used  to  make  me  go  to  one  or  the  other  of  these 
old  aunts  to  be  taught  the  catechism,  and  it  was  the  ugliest  of  the 
three,  that  prepared  me  for  my  first  conununion.  I  have  been 
through  many  a  iiard-fought  battle,  and  would  willingly  go  through 
them  all  over  again,  soon  .  han  be  obliged  to  submit  to  the  drillings 
that  she  used  to  put  me  through." 

Said  I :  "  General,  si)eaking  of  your  aunt,  reminds  me  of  the  old 
woman  who  brought  me  up."  "Why,"  said  the  general,  "did  she 
teach  you  the  catechism?"  "She  tried  to,"  said  I  ;  "and  she  suc- 
ceeded about  as  well  with  me  as  your  old  aunt,  the  abbess,  seems  to 
have  done  with  you.  ]kit  I  think,  that  you  and  I  resemble  each  other 
in  this  respect,  that  neither  of  us  is  piously  inclined." 

"Oh,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replied,  "don't  trust  to  that  disposi- 
tion for  protection.  If  you  wish  to  escape  the  influence  of  these 
women,  you  must  clear  right  out ;  otherwise  they  will  have  you,  and, 
if  they  once  get  you,  that  is  the  last  of  you."  "They  have  actually 
set  me  thinking,"  I  rejoined,  "and  I  ask  myself:  are  they  crazy  or 
am  I." 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  see  they  are  getting  the  best  of  you  ;  and  I  tell 
you  to  beware  of  that  Spanish  nun.  She  is  one  of  the  worst  kind. 
I  can  see  in  her  eye  that  she  is  bound  to  have  you  :  sl>e  will  stick  to 
you  night  and  day  until  she  gets  you.  And  you  ought  to  know,  that 
she  is  personally  interested,  for  it  would  be  considered  a  great  tri- 
umph here,  if  she  could  wrest  a  lady  like  yourself  from  the  claws  of 
the  devil.  That  is  just  the  view  these  women  take  of  it.  To  hear 
my  old  aunts  go  on,  you  would  think  that  a  man  was  only  born  to 
die."  "  Well,"  said  I,  "  by  the  rate  at  which  our  friends  are  dying 
oflf,  it  looks  very  much  like  it."     "Ah!"  said  he,  "is  it  not  dread- 


SURPRISED   AT   PRAYER. 


197 


fill  ?  There  is  my  daughter,  my  son-in-law,  poor  lUssano's  daiigliter, 
and  then  Tascher's  daughter,  too,  and  now  the  duke's  wife,  all  gone  ! 
I  tell  you,  there  is  a  fatality  that  seems  to  hang  over  the  east  wing 
of  that  palace." 

Tlio  old  general  wiped  away  his  tears,  and  then  continued  :  "  It 
is  the  least,  that  a  man  can  do,  to  try  to  console  himself  by  making 
use  of  the  good  things  in  this  life,  without  becoming  a  voluntary 
martyr."  "  IJut,"  said  I,  "  you  are  surfeited  with  the  good  things  of 
this  life,  and  yet  they  do  not  seem  to  console  you."  "  I  would  like 
to  know,"  he  rei)licd,  "  what  there  is  on  earth,  that  can  replace  or 
console  us  for  the  loss  of  those  that  we  love  ?  " 

"  The  nuns  say,"  I  answered,  "  that  they  replace  them  with  the 
hope,  that  they  will  soon  meet  again,  and  they  console  themselves 
by  sdll  rendering  them  services  by  dieir  prayers  and  their  good 
works."  The  old  general  wiped  his  eyes,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
said  to  me,  in  a  most  despairing  tone :  "  My  dear  lady,  they  have 
got yoti  ;  for  when  you  said  that,  it  sounded  just  like  one  of  them  !  " 

The  next  day  I  was  strolling  in  the  garden  by  myself,  thinking  I 
was  all  alone,  when  I  entered  a  rustic  bower.  It  was  canopied  by  a 
densely  leaved  sycamore  tree.  To  my  surprise  I  found  Madam 
Xavier  there.  In  her  hands  she  held  her  rosary,  and  by  her  side  lay  a 
delicate  litde  nosegay.  It  was  entirely  composed  of  violets  of  differ- 
ent shades,  which  she  had  so  arranged,  that  the  letter  J  could  be  dis- 
tinctly seen  in  the  centre.  The  perfume  of  the  violets,  which  scented 
the  air,  seemed  to  pervade  my  whole  being,  the  same  as  the  incense, 
that  would  rise  from  their  altars,  while  the  chapel  resounded  to  the 
hymn  sung  by  infant  voices  to  glorify  the  Sacred  Host,  which  they 
all  adored.  1  could  not  help  saying  to  her  :  "  Dearest,  I  feel,  that 
it  is  good  for  me  to  be  here,  and  that  no  other  hand,  but  the  hand  of 
God,  has  led  me  here."  She  replied :  "  I  knew,  that  our  Lord  led 
you  to  me,  die  instant  I  saw  you ; "  and  she  took  the  flowers  and 
fastened  them  in  my  belt  just  beneath  my  heart,  and  began  to  speak 
to  me  of  the  Saviour's  love. 

While  she  was  speaking,  I  was  carelessly  toying  with  the  beads, 
which  hung  from  her  girdle.  I  asked  her  what  was  the  meaning  of 
mumbling  over  the  beads,  remarking  that  1  did  not  believe  any  good 
could  result  from  such  a  silly  practice.  She  told  me  that  the  Rosary, 
which  is  divided  into  three  parts,  each  of  which  is  called  a  chaplet,  is 
a  pious  exercise  introduced  into  the  church  by  St.  Dominick  in  the 


'■[  'W,  m 


i'r  rli«»J  «ii 


I 


1/ 


^'     I 


198 


THE   ROSARY. 


thirteenth  century.  But  tradition  shows,  that  the  practice  of  using 
beads  to  count  one's  prayers  was  of  a  much  earHer  period  ;  for  the 
virgin  martyrs  used  to  ornament  their  hair  before  going  to  death  witli  a 
crown  composed  of  coral  beads,  which  served  to  count  the  prayers, 
that  their  pious  hearts  ofilered  to  CJod,  before  the  time  came  for  them 
to  give  themselves  up  for  sacrifice.  She  then  gave  me  a  very  interest- 
ing description  of  the  simpHcity  and  beauty  of  tlie  devotion  of  the 
Rosary.  "  This  pious  practice  is,"  she  said,  "  nothing  more  or  less, 
than  repetitions  of  the  prayer,  which  God  Hiniself  has  taught,  and 
that  other  prayer,  in  which  we  repeat  the  address  of  (iod's  angel  to 
Mary,  and  ask  her  to  use  her  powerful  influence  with  her  beloved 
Son.  Associated  with  these  repetitions  of  divine  prayers,  are  medi- 
tations on  the  most  prominent  mysteries  in  the  work  of  man's  redemp- 
tion. 

"  It  is  the  simplest  of  all  our  devotions,"  she  continued  ;  "  so  much 
so,  that  dissenters  have  often  rejjroached  us  for  our  use  of  it ;  because 
they  find  the  form  monotonous,  being  a  continual  repetition  of  the 
same  prayer,  and  they  pretend,  that  it  should  be  the  exclusive  portion 
of  the  poor  and  the  ignorant,  liut  we  tind  in  this  jjious  exercise  of 
reciting  the  chaplet  a  mysterious  unction,  a  true  consolation,  and  a 
charm,  which  is  always  new.  IFc  feel  that  there  are  striking  con- 
trasts enough,  even  in  the  house  of  God,  between  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  and  that  v  ought  to  be  happy  to  have  God  see  us  before  liis 
altar  by  the  side  of  his  poor,  with  an  humble  cha[)let  in  our  hands,  re- 
peating the  same  prayers  with  the  same  simplicity  of  faith." 

She  then  named  to  me  the  fifteen  mysteries  of  the  Rosary:  "The 
first  five  are  the  Joyful  Mysteries.  On  the  first  decade,  we  meditate 
on  the  Annunciation  ;  and  the  fruit,  which  we  wish  to  gather  from  our 
|)rayers,  is  Humility.  We  say  one  Our  Father  and  ten  Hail  Marfs. 
"Yes,"  I  interrupted;  "and  so  you  pray  ten  times  as  much  to  the 
Virgin,  as  you  do  to  God."  "  How  can  you  say  that,"  she  replied, 
"when  I  assure  you,  that  1  am  praying  all  the  time  to  God,  and  am 
asking  God  to  grant  me  the  grace  of  hiunility  ?  ]}ut,  one  prayer  1 
make  directly  to  God,  and,  in  the  other  ten,  I  beg  the  Blessed  Virgin 
to  assist  me  with  her  prayers;  but  I  am  praying  to  God  all  die 
time. 

"The  second  joyful  mystery  is  the  Visitation,  where  the  BlessoJ 
Virgin  visits  her  cousin  ]<'dizabeth  :  then  we  ask  for  charity.  The 
third  is  the  Birth  of  our  Lord  :  we  ask  for  detachment.     The  fourth 


THREE   CHAPLETS. 


199 


<r  to  (k)d  all  the 


is  the  Purification  :  we  ask  for  the  grace  of  purity,  and  obedience  to 
God's  laws.  The  last,  and  fifth,  of  the  joyful  mysteries,  is  the  Find- 
ing of  the  Child  Jesus  in  the  tem'ple  :  then  we  ask  to  always  search 
for  Jesus  Christ. 

"Now,"  said  Madam  Xavier,  "you  see,  we  have  said  the  ch^plet 
through  once.  We  begin  it  over  again,  if  we  wish  to  meditate  on  the 
Sorrowful  Mysteries. 

"The  first  sorrowful  mystery  is  the  Agony  of  our  Lord  in  the  gar- 
den. WJien  we  meditate  on  that  mystery,  we  ask  our  Lord  to  give 
us  contrition  for  our  sins.  The  second  of  the  sorrowfid  mysteries  is  the 
Flagellation  :  we  ask  for  the  spirit  of  mortification.  The  third  is  the 
Crowning  of  our  Lord  with  thorns  :  we  ask  for  patience.  The  fourth 
is,  where  they  place  the  cross  on  His  sacreJ  shoulders :  we  ask  for 
resignation.  And  the  fifth  is  the  Crucifixion  :  we  ask  our  Lord,  that 
we  may  be  crucified  to  ourselves  and  only  live  in  Him. 

"  Now  we  have  finished  the  chai)let  twice ;  and  we  recommence  it 
again,  to  meditate  on  the  glorious  mysteries.  The  first  is  the  Resur- 
rection :  we  pray  for  faith.  The  second  is  the  Ascension  of  our 
Lord :  we  pray  God  to  give  us  a  desire  for  heaven.  The  third 
glorious  mystery  is  the  Descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost :  we  pray  God  to 
grant  us  the  gifts  of  the  Holy  Spirit "  I  asked  her,  what  were  the 
gifts  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  She  replied  :  "  Wisdom,  understanding, 
counsel,  fortitude,  knowledge,  piety,  and  the  fear  of  the  Lord.  The 
fourth  mystery  is  the  Assumption  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  :  we  ask  to  be 
united  to  the  mother  of  God.  The  fifth,  and  last,  mystery  is  the 
Crowning  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  Heaven  :  we  pray  for  perse- 
verance." 

I  asked  her,  what  she  meant  by  praying  for  a  union  with  Mary. 
Sb.e  replied,  that  it  was  only  congenial  and  sympathetic  spirits,  that 
could  unite  and  blend  their  hearts,  souls,  and  minds  into  one  ;  •"  and," 
she  continued,  "  as  Mary  was  endowed  with  all  the  virtues,  and  was 
the  great  i)attern  of  purity,  humility,  and  charity,  when  we  ask  to  be 
united  with  her,  we  implore  our  Lord  to  make  us  like  her  ;  it  is  the 
same  as  asking  Hinr  to  make  us  perfect  in  His  sight." 

I  incjuired  what  did  she  mean  by  the  Assumi)tion  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  She  replied,  that,  according  to  a  tradition  everywhere  re- 
ceived since  the  beginning  of  Christianity,  the  body  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  never  new  corruption  :  she  arose  some  time  after  her  death, 
und  was  raised  up,  both  body  and  soul,  into  Heaven,  in  the  midst  of 


.J- 


200 


A  POSY  FROM   BOSSUET. 


a  concert  of  angels.  This  belief  has,  as  Bossuet  remarks,  a  particu- 
lar connection  with  the  Incarnation  of  the  eternal  Word.  "  For, 
if  the  divine  Mary  once  received  Jesus  the  Saviour,  it  was  but  just 
that  the  Saviour,  in  His  turn,  should  receive  the  Blessed  Mary,  and 
that,  not  having  disdained  to  descend  into  her,  He  should  afterwards 
elevate  her  to  Himself,  that  she  niight  enter  into  His  glory.  There- 
fore we  should  not  be  surprised,  if  the  Blessed  Mary  rises  with  so 
much  splendor,  or  if  she  triumphs  with  so  much  pomp.  Jesus,  to 
whom  the  Blessed  Virgin  gave  birth,  gives  back  a  new  birth  to  her, 
from  gratitude,  and,  as  a  (iod  should  always  be  more  munificent  than. 
His  creature,  although  He  only  received  a  mortal  life,  it  is  His  place 
to  give  a  glorious  one  in  exchange  for  it.  Thus  these  two  mysteries 
are  allied  to  each  other,  and,  in  order  that  there  may  be  a  still  closer 
connection,  the  angels  intervene  in  the  one  and  the  other,  and  re- 
joice with  Mary,  to  see,  in  her  elevation  to  Heaven,  the  beautiful 
continuation  of  the  mystery,  that  they  were  sent  from  Heaven  to 
announce." 

When  she  had  finished,  she  asked  me,  with  an  air  of  holy  joy  and 
triumph,  where  was  the  superstition  in  saying  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the 
Hail  Mary,  and  meditating  on  the  leading  events  in  the  life  of  Jesus 
Christ  and  His  blessed  mother  ?  I  told  her,  that  I  wished  she  could 
explain  away  all  my  other  [>rejudices,  as  (luickly  and  as  thoroughly  as 
she  had  the  one  I  entertained  but  a  moment  before  about  the  beads 
and  the  Rosary.  "  Have  patience,"  she  replied,  "  and  the  Lord  will 
finish  His  work  in  you.  He  led  you  here,  and,  believe  me,  He  will 
not  abandon  you." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


A    SPr,ENETIC   .SPINSTER. 


Night  after  night  I  was  thrown  entirely  upon  myself,  during  those 
hours,  which,  for  years,  I  had  devoted  to  dissipation  and  pleasure, 
The  religious  would  leave  me  about  half-past  eight,  and  I  had  never 
been  accustomed  to  retire  before  midnight.  The  moment  I  was 
alone,  I  would  begin  to  think  of  Laferri<>re,  and  wonder  what  he  was 
\bout.     I  imagined,  that  he  could  not  always  be  alone,  in  his  palatial 


A  PERVERSE  NATURE. 


201 


apartment,  and  then  I  would* be  seized  v/^h  a  fit  of  jealousy,  which 
would  render  the  loneliness  of  my  position  harrowing. 

There  too  was  my  maid  Josephine,  who  would  have  driven  me 
frantic,  had  I  not  been  firmly  resolved  to  resist  her  influence.  She 
was  a  nominal  Catholic,  but  one  who  had  a  hatred  towards  nuns. 
She  was  one  of  those  Catholics,  and  the  church  is  full  of  them,  who 
pride  themselves  in  the  title  of  Catholic,  but  who  disgrace  the  name  of 
Christian.  Hers  was  an  odd  and  a  strangely  ])erverse  nature ;  for 
nothing  escaped  her,  but  the  good.  The  good  she  could  never  see  ; 
for  she  belonged  to  that  class  of  evil-minded  jieople,  who  ever  remain 
blind  to  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  but  will  find  evil 
everywhere,  and  in  everything.  They  are  ever  searching  for  it,  and 
they  cannot  fail  to  find  it ;  for  they  have  the  faculty  of  perverting 
everything  that  is  good  and  beautiful,  into  what  is  bad  and  hideous. 

Josephine  was  always  prying,  to  find  something  to  tell  me  against 
the  nuns.  Her  object  was  to  make  me  dislike  them,  and  to  make 
my  stay  among  them  so  disagreeable,  that  1  should  have  to  leave  ; 
for  Josephine's  horror  was  the  restraint,  monotony,  and  loneliness  of 
a  cloistered  life.  She  had  already  been  counting  the  days,  that  still 
remained  before  the  vacation  would  end ;  but  when  the  Mother 
Superior  informed  me,  that  the  Superior  Ceneral  had  given  permis- 
sion, that  I  might  remain  with  them  as  long  as  I  chose,  and  I  had 
decided  to  make  the  convent  my  future  home,  her  impatience  turned 
into  despair,  and  she  raved  like  a  mad-woman.  There  were  two 
reasons  for  not  discharging  her :  one  was,  that  it  was  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  get  a  maid,  who  would  reside  in  a  convent ;  as  one  of  the 
rules,  that  aiiplied  to  her  was,  that  she  should  not  receive  male 
acquaintances.  Josephine  said,  that  she  had  none,  and  nobody 
doubted  it ;  but  it  would  have  been  difticult  to  find  another  girl  in 
France,  who  could  say  as  much.  Another  motive  for  keeping  her 
was  one  of  compassion  ;  for  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  her  to 
get  another  situation. 

To  give  an  accurate  descrii)tion  of  this  lonely  and  disconsolate 
maid,  who  so  much  more  jircferred  the  din  and  bustle  of  Paris  to  a 
life  of  (juiet  and  calm  in  a  cloister,  would  be  impossible.  She  never 
appeared  twice  alike ;  but  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  her  being 
tall,  lank,  and  sallow,  with  protruding  eyes.  She  always  reminded 
me  of  some  one,  who  had  just  escaped  from  the  flames  ;  for  she 
always  looked  frightened  to  death.     And  I  have  a  distinct  recollec- 


A  nun's  revenge. 

tion  of  her  waterfall,  which  seeniecl  to  justify  my  fiincy  ;  for  it 
resembled  nothing  on  tlie  earth,  or  in  its  supernal  or  infernal  sur- 
roundings, as  far  as  they  are  known  to  us,  so  much  as  a  parcel  of 
scorched  rags  twisted  together,  covered  with  a  net,  and  nailed  to  the 
back  of  her  head.  She  looked  about  forty  ;  but  she  gave  herself 
twenty-five. 

It  was  not,  however,  her  awkward  address  and  homely  face,  that 
prejudiced  me  against  her  :  for  I  v/as  always  too  much  of  a  woman, 
to  be  displeased  with  another  woman  on  account  of  her  being  home- 
lier than  myself.  Josephine  was  always  finding  fault,  or  was  angry 
with  some  one.  She  disliked  everybody  in  the  convent,  except  a 
Switzer,  the  gardener,  who  was  the  only  man  on  the  jjremises.  Sl>^ 
was  the  pcisonincation  of  curiosity  and  inquisitiveness.  What  she 
could  not  otherwise  find  out,  she  was  sure  to  learn  from  the  gardener, 
who  knew  everything  that  was  going  on  ;  and  she  was  thus  able  to 
retail  to  me  all  the  doings  of  the  Sisters,  laying  always  particular 
stress  on  the  evil  intentions,  which  she  imputed  to  them. 

One  day  I  was  cognizant  of  a  vile  trick,  tiiat  Josephine  had  been 
playing  on  a  little  old  Sister,  who  was  known  as  Sister  Madeleine ; 
whom  she  accused  of  being  a  hyi)0crite,  because  she  refused  to 
resent  it.  In  strolling  through  the  garden  I  happened  to  surprise 
Sister  Madeleine  praying  before  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  She 
started,  and  appeared  as  confused,  as  though  she  were  conunitting 
an  offence.  But  the  moment  she  saw  that  it  was  I,  she  told  me  how 
I  had  frightened  her ;  for  she  feared  it  might  be  Josephine  for  whom 
she  was  just  praying. 

What,"  said  I,  "were  yon  praying  for  that  rogue,  who  is  the 
plague  of  the  convent?"  '•  I  don't  know  of  any  one  who  needs  it 
more,"  answered  the  Sister. 

I  began  to  sympathize  with  her,  and  told  her  that  I  was  sorry  for 
her.  But  she  was  not  pleased  with  my  remark  ;  for,  in  a  determined 
tone,  she  said  to  me  :  "  Don't  pity  me,  but  pity  Josephine  ;  for,  no 
matter  what  tricks  ohe  may  have  played  off  on  me,  I  have  always  got 
the  best  of  her."  I  was  astonished  to  hear  hei  speak  in  this  way. 
She  noticed  that  I  did  not  comprehend  her  meaning  and  continued : 

No  matter  what  she  has  done  to  me,  (iod  has  given  me  the  grace 
to  forgive  her ;  and  there  1  get  the  best  of  her.  But,  madam^  she 
will  not  forgive  me  for  forgiviu}^  her,  and  that  is  what  makes  me  so 
wretched.     I  feel  a  little  down-hearted  to-day ;  I  don't  know  what 


RARE   CHRISTIAN   CHARITY. 


203 


more  I  can  do  in  order  to  make  her  do  better  ;  and  I  was  just  asking 
our  Lord  to  inspire  me  when  you  caught  me."  At  these  words 
Sister  Madeleine  burst  into  tears. 

There  was  a  lesson  for  me  in  Christian  charity,  which  far  exceeded 
anything  I  had  ever  imagined.  As  I  turned  away  froni  the  Sister  and 
saw  her  humbly  kneeling  on  the  ground  to  continue  her  prayer,  I  asked 
myself:  "What  is  there  in  this  religion,  that  can  bring  souls  up  to 
such  perfection?"  for  1  knew,  that  Sister  Madeleine  was  thoroughly 
insensible  to  all  the  wrongs,  that  this  perverse  creature  could  do  her, 
and  that  she  only  grieved,  because  the  girl  offended  her  Lord. 


CHAPTER  XT,V. 

POWER    OF    A   child's    REPROACHFUL    LOOK. 

One  day  I  asked  the  Mother  Superior  to  permit  my  child  to  dine 
with  me  that  afternoon.  She  at  first  hesitated,  because  a  late  dinner 
disagreed  with  the  child. 

Slie  took  the  child  by  the  hand,  and  said  to  her  :  "  My  little  dear, 
you  may  dine  witli  your  mamma  this  afternoon  ;  but  you  must  not  eat 
any  dessert."  Tlie  child  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  kissed 
her,  as  she  replied:  "No,  good  mother,  I  will  not  eat  any,"  The 
Superior  then  turned  to  me,  and  recjuested  me  not  to  offer  the  child 
any,  and  1  prouiised  I  would  not. 

When  the  dessert  came  on  the  table,  the  child's  eyes  sparkled,  for 
it  was  her  favorite  kind  ;  but,  in  an  instant,  her  eyelids  drooped,  and 
she  looked  sad,  for  she  remembered  the  prohibition  of  the  good 
mother.  I  said  to  her  :  "  I  will  give  you  some."  The  child  shook 
her  head,  and  said  :  "  No,  mamma,  good  mother  does  not  wish  it." 
Said  I  :  "  Never  mind  the  good  mother,  she  will  never  know  any- 
thing about  it ; "  and  so  saying,  I  was  about  to  put  some  on  her 
plate,  when  she  prevented  me  by  raising  her  hand  and  pushing  the 
spoon  away,  saying,  as  she  did  so  :  "  Oh  mamma,  I  would  not  dis- 
pbey  the  good  mother." 

I  dropped  the  spoon,  and  reddened  with  shame,  that  I  should 
have  given  my  child  so  bad  an  example  ;  but,  thinking  I  could  make 
it  all  right,  1  began  to  i)raise  her  obedience.     While  I  was  speaking, 


1 


M 


p^i 


204 


PERVERSITY   ITSELF. 


the  child  looked  thoughtfully,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  table  ;  and 
when  I  had  finished,  she  looked  up  into  my  foce,  with  an  inciuiring 
glance,  and  said  :  "  If  I  am  such  a  good  girl  for  obeying  good  moth- 
er, why  do  you  disobey  her  ?  '' 

This  time  it  was  my  turn  to  look  down  at  the  tal)le.  I  was  so 
humilii  ted,  that  I  could  have  burst  into  tears  ;  for  what  reason  could 
I  give  the  child,  if  I  spoke  the  whole  truth,  but  to  tell  her,  that  I 
was  perversity  itse  and  that  was  the  reason  why  I  disobeyed  the 
Superior,  and  thus  set  her  such  an  example.  The  child  waited  an  in- 
stant  for  me  to  reply,  and  I  was  just  going  to  speak,  when  she  con- 
tinued:  "If  it  displeases  God  for  us  to  tell  lies,  mamma,  why  do 
you  tell  them  ?  for  you  told  good  mother,  that  you  would  not  offer 
me  any  dessert."  This  last  question  was  too  much.  I  was  com- 
pletely crushed. 

The  moment  the  Sister  returned  to  clear  off  the  table,  I  made  her 
open  the  gate,  and,  taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  I  rushed  over  to 
the  good  mother,  to  whom  I  confessed  the  whole  thing,  telling  her 
that  my  confusion  and  sliame  was  only  equalled  by  my  gratitude  to 
her  for  having  brought  up  my  child  so  well.  The  good  motlier 
embraced  me.  This  seemed  to  delight  the  heart  of  the  child  ;  for 
she  had  expected  that  I  would  be  put  in  penance  for  my  diso- 
bedience, and  for  having  told  a  falsehood.  I  told  the  mother,  that 
I  never  could  have  believed,  that  a  child  of  that  age  could  resist 
such  a  temptation.  But  the  mother  was  not  at  all  surprised  at  the 
child's  conduct ;  and  she  said,  that  all  the  little  girls  in  the  school 
were  brought  up  in  the  same  way ;  and  that  the  first  thing,  that  a 
true  Christian  mother  teaches  her  child,  when  it  leaves  the  cradle,  is 
to  love  and  fear  God,  and  to  keep  His  commandments. 

She  then  took  the  child  on  her  knee,  and  excused  me  to  her,  tell- 
ing her  that,  as  -I  was  not  a  nun,  it  was  no  sin  for  me  to  disobey  her. 
But  the  chjld  spoke  up,  and  answered  her :  "  But  then  she  should 
obey  God,  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  He  forbids  us  to  tell  a  lie :  and 
you  know,  good  mother,  she  promised  she  would  not  offer  me  any 
dessert."  The  mother  found  it  harder  to  get  out  of  that.  But  she 
still  excused  me,  as  well  as  she  could.  The  child  listened  attentive- 
ly, and  at  last  appeared  impatient  at  the  mother's  ineffectual  efforts 
to  defend  me.  Then  she  sprang  off"  her  knee,  looked  up  seriously 
into  her  face,  and  said  :  "  I  know,  good  mother,  that  mamma  can- 
not understand  these  things ;    for  she  has  never  been  baptized." 


! 


A   MORAL. 


205 


he  table  ;  and 
an  incjuirinif 
ig  good  nioth- 

le.      I  was  so 

t  reason  could 

tell  her,  that  I 

isobeyed   the 

waited  an  in- 

when  she  con- 

imma,  why  do 

ould  not  offer 

I  was  coni- 

e,  I  made  her 
ushed  over  to 
telling  her 
y  gratitude  to 
good   mother 
the  child;  for 
;  for  my  diso- 
;  mother,  that 
e  could  resist 
rprised  at  the 
i  in  the  school 
thing,  that  a 
the  cradle,  is 

e  to  her,  tell- 
)  disobey  her. 
n  she  should 
ell  a  lie  :  and 

offer  me  any 
at.  But  she 
led  attentive- 
ectual  efforts 

np  seriously 
mamma  caii- 
n  baptized." 


"  That  is  it,"  replied  the  mother  :  "  now  go  and  kiss  your  mamma 
good-night ;  "  and  the  Superior  accompanied  me  back  to  the  cha- 
teau, laughing  all  the  way  at  my  child's  ingenuous  way  of  settling  the 
aftliir. 

From  that  day  my  child  kept  away  from  me  more  than  ever,  and 
I  noticed,  that  she  even  sought  to  avoid  me.  It  was  the  severest 
jiunishment  I  had  ever  yet  had  inflicted  upon  me  for  disobedience 
and  falsehood ;  for  my  child's  reproachful  look  would  cut  me  to  the 
quick.  I  had  read  somewhere,  that  the  best  lessons  on  morality, 
that  parents  can  give  their. children,  are  nothing  compared  to  their 
good  example. 

But  the  case  with  me  was  now  so  strangely  reversed,  that,  as  far 
as  my  reading  went,  it  seemed  to  have  escaped  the  moralists.  So  I 
sat  down  and  wrote  out  a  moral  for  myself: 

Put  together  all  the  beatings  and  scoldings,  the  sermons  and  les- 
sons, that  a  perverse  woman  may  have  received  during  her  whole 
life,  to  induce  her  to  speak  the  truth  ;  and  they  will  not  have  as  much 
power  to  reclaim  her,  as  one  reproachful  look  from  her  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

•^HE    PANTHEON. "SERMONS    IN    STONES." 

Madam  Xavikr  was  with  me  a  great  deal.  I  loved  to  hear  her 
talk  of  her  native  Spain,  and  explain  the  beauties  of  Catholic  faith  and 
practice.  We  had  been  passing  one  afternoon  in  the  kiosk  in  the 
garden.  She  had  been  explaining  to  me  the  honor,  that  the  church 
teaches  should  be  paid  to  the  saints. 

"  We  beg  of  the  saints,"  said  she,  *'  to  plead  in  our  behalf.  Hence 
it  is,  that  we  make  use  of  two  forms  of  prayer ;  but  they  differ  widely 
from  each  other  ;  for  in  speaking  to  God  we  say  :  '  Have  mercy  on 
us,'  'Hear  us;'  whereas  in  addressing  ourselves  to  a  saint  we  say 
no  more  than  :  '  Pray  for  us.'  "  I  objected,  that  I  could  not  believe, 
that  the  saints  could  hear  us.  She  then  qiloted  the  passage  in  Scrip- 
ture, which  declares,  that  the  repentance  of  a  sinner  on  earth  causes 
joy  among  the  angels  in  heaven.  "St.  Peter,"  said  she,  "knew  the 
criminal  deception  perpetrated  privately  by  Ananias  and  Sapphira ; 


II 


206 


SUNLIGHT. 


ill 


(Acts  V.) — and  when  feeble  mortals  can  know  so  much  by  the  mere 
light  of  grace,  what  is  there  not  possible  for  them  to  know,  when 
their  spirits  arc  freed  from  this  dungeon  of  the  body,  and  have  the 
light  both  of  grace  and  of  glory  ?" 

As  we  rose  to  leave  the  kiosk,  we  threw  a  glance  over  on  Paris, 
which  was  resplendent  in  the  tiery 'light  of  the  setting  sun.  For  a 
moment  Madam  Xavier  remained  silent,  and  appeared  lost  in 
thought  before  the  brilliancy  of  the  scene.  At  last  she  said  to  nie : 
"  This  reminds  me  of  Spain,  It  is  like  a  Spanish  sunshine."  Said  I : 
•'  I  should  think  you  would  long  to  return  to  Spain  ;  for  a  Spaniard  is 
seldom  weaned  from  his  native  skies."  "  Ah,"  she  replied,  wuli  a 
joyous  smile,  "  all  lands  are  alike  to  me,  since  I  have  given  myself 
to  God.  The  land,  that  pleases  me  best,  is  the  land,  where  I  can 
serve  Him  most."  Pointing  to  the  sky  she  exclaimed  :  "There  is  my 
country ;  for  it  is  there,  that  He  dwells,  whom  I  love." 

Said  I :  "  I  have  always  loved  the  sun,  and  I  think,  that  I  would 
have  made  a  devout  Parsee."  And  I  told  her  how,  when  a  child,  I 
used  to  roam  over  the  hills,  through  a  wild  woodland,  and  my  signal 
to  return  home  was  the  sun's  touching  the  mountain  top  ;  and  as  I 
went  along  leaping  over  the  rocks,  and  through  the  bushes,  while  the 
sky  was  all  on  lire  and  the  hills  were  lighted  up  by  the  sun's  depart- 
ing rays,  it  filled  my  bosom  with  such  warmth  and  rapture,  that  1  felt, 
that  I  could  kneel  and  worship  it. 

"  Your  bosom  would  be  filled  with  a  far  greater  rapture,"  she  re- 
plied, "if  you  would  but  kneel  and  worship  Him,  who  is  called  the 
Son  of  righteousness,  the  true  light  from  Heaven,  that  enlightenelh 
every  man,  that  cometh  into  this  world,  and  is  the  Son  of  (lod.  Tiie 
solar  light  is  but  a  faint  reflection  of  the  glory  which  surrounds  His 
head.  But  the  light,  which  He  has  shed  over  the  world,  we  must, 
not  merely  admire,  but  follow." 

She  pointed  out  to  me  the  different  churches  in  the  distance,  whose 
spires  and  domes,  as  the  sun  illumined  them,  seemed  encompassed 
by  a  halo. 

At  last  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon,  which  reared 
its  head  aloft  above  the  rest,  and  sat  like  a  crown  on  the  brow  of  the 
great  city ;  and  1  fell  to  musing  on  the  past ;  for  the  Pantheon  was 
associated  with  my  first  recollections  of  Paris.  Was  it  not  its  dome, 
that  had  put  the  seal  on  the  vision  of  bright  hopes,  that  filled  my 
bosom  at  the  first  glance  I  caught  of  the  gay  cai)ital  ?    And  had  not 


ich  by  the  mere 

to  know,  when 

ly,  and  have  the 

;  over  on  Paris, 
ng  sun.  For  a 
ipeared   lost   in 

she  said  to  nie : 
shine."  Said  I : 
for  a  Si)aniard  is 

replied,  with  a 
ve  given  myself 
iiid,  where  I  can 

:   "There  is  my 

nk,  that  I  would 
,  when  a  child,  I 
:1,  and  my  signal 
in  top  ;  and  as  I 
jushes,  while  the 
the  sun's  depart- 
[)ture,  that  1  felt, 

rapture,"  she  re- 
vho  is  called  the 
bat  enlighteneth 
3n  of  God.  The 
;h  surrounds  His 
world,  we  must, 

t  distance,  whose 
ed  encompassed 

on,  which  reared 

the  brow  of  the 

le  Pantheon  was 

it  not  its  dome, 

s,  that  filled  my 

?    And  had  not 


f 


# 


^>  C.'\  ' 


i  , 

n 

1 

1 

: 

i\4f' 

1 

m 

1 

|l 

II 

1 

■I 


! 


v'    '^ 


THE   DOME  OF  THE   PANTHEON. 


PETITIONS   GRANTED. 


207 


its  augury  proved  true  ?  I  felt,  that  that  happy  vision  had  been  ful- 
filled, and  would  never  come  again.  Yet,  while  gazing  steadily  on  the 
Pantheon,  my  hopes  seemed  to  revive.  I  loved  that  beautiful  dome, 
I  could  not  tell  why  :  there  seemed  to  exist  between  it  and  me  some 
hallowed  mysterious  bond.  And  1  inwardly  exclaimed  :  "  Oh  give 
me  peace  !  give  me  hope  I    Oh  give  me  back  again  my  joyful  heart ! " 

I  had  hardly  offered  up  this  mental  prayer,  when  I  instantly  recol- 
lected having  once  jirayed  beneath  that  dome  ;  and,  all  at  once,  the 
beautiful  altar,  St.  Genevieve's  statue,  the  priest,  the  lighted  can- 
dles, all  came  back  to  me ;  and  I  remembered  the  petition,  that  I 
had  offered  to  Ood,  through  the  intercession  of  this  saint.  I  remem- 
bered well,  that  I  had  asked  without  faith,  and  only  to  test  if  there 
■were  anything  in  Christian  piety. 

A  crowd  of  events,  which  had  happened  since,  rushed  through  my 
mind ;  and,  throwing  my  arms  around  Madam  Xavier,  I  was  so  over- 
come, that  I  could  scarcely  speak.  It  seemed  as  if  my  tongue 
cleaved  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  I  was  so  anxious  to  tell  her  all  in 
a  word.  Pointing  to  the  Pantheon,  I  exclaimed  :  '■'■  I  do  believe  in  one 
of  your  saints, — I  believe  in  Si.  Genevieve ;  for  she  has  given  me 
everything  I  asked  for." 

I  was  so  excited,  and  spoke  in  a  tone  so  loud,  and  so  discordant 
with  our  former  quiet  musings,  that  Madam  Xavier  had  not  time  to 
recover  from  her  astonishment  and  ask  me  what  I  meant,  before  I 
told  her  how,  nearly  four  year-  ago,  when  I  first  arrived  in  France,  I 
had  gone  to  the  Pantheon  to  visit  the  tombs  of  Voltaire  and  Rous- 
seau ;  how  I  had  suddenly  found  myself  in  front  of  St.  Genevieve's 
altar,  and  had  asked  her  for  something,  just  to  see  what  a  saint  could 
do  ;  and  that  I  had  promised  her  a  beautiful  present  if  she  granted 
my  request.  Said  I :  "  She  is  a  powerful  saint,  for  she  has  obtained 
for  me  all  that  I  asked.  I  prayed  her,  that  I  might  have  plenty  of 
money,  that  1  might  be  ])resented  at  court,  and  that  the  first  men  of 
the  empire  might  be  at  my  feet ; "  and  I  began  to  count,  by  running 
over  my  fingers,  the  names  of  my  different  concjuests. 

I  have  heard  it  said,  that  nuns  never  laugh.  I  wish  those,  who 
think  so,  could  have  seen  Madam  Xavier,  after  I  had  told  her  of  my 
faith  in  St.  Genevieve,  and  my  connection  with  this  saint.  She 
laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  Said  she  :  "  We  must  go 
and  tell  this  to  the  M  other  Superior."  She  made  me  tell  the  whole  story 
over  again,  and  when  the  mother  could  recover  from  her  laughter, 


ii    I 
I 


) 


l^fT«~— - 


208 


MORE   PETITIONS. 


3fM  '  ; 


II 


she  said  to  me,  that  it  was  evident,  that  St.  (icncvicve  had  taken  nie 
under  her  protection,  and  she  gave  us  permission  to  go  the  next  day 
to  the  Pantheon  and  offer  our  thanks,  teUing  me  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  could  put  in  the  poor-box  whatever  I  chose;  but  she  was  smo, 
that  the  saint  would  be  more  pleased  witli  my  faith  and  my  gratitude, 
that  with  any  other  jiresent  1  could  offer  her.  "  Yes,"  thought  I, 
"probably  more  so,  than  the  cure  of  the  Pantheon." 

The  next  day  Madam  Xavier  and  myself  started  for  the  Pan- 
theon. As  she  had  a  great  devotion  to  our  Lady  of  Victories,  we 
drove  there  first.  She  wanted  me  to  see  how  the  altar  was  loaded 
down  with  offerings.  The  walls  were  covered  with  marble  slabs,  on 
which  were  inscribed  the  pious  ejaculations  of  praise  and  thanks, 
which  faithful  souls  had  placed  there  in  testimony  of  the  favors,  they 
had  obtained  through  the  intercession  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

When  we  reached  the  Pantheon,  we  went  straight  to  St.  Gene- 
vieve's altar.  Madam  Xavier  knelt  in  prayer.  I  stood  leaning  against 
one  of  the  massive  columns,  and  thanked  the  saint  for  her  kindness  to 
me.  I  then  put  a  small  sum  of  money  in  the  poor-box.  I  felt,  that 
it  was  almost  a  fraud  to  requite  the  saint  so  poorly ;  for  I  was  sine 
that  she  had  assisted  me.  But  I  quieted  my  conscience  by  thinking 
over  what  the  mother  had  said  to  me,  that  the  saint  preferred  my 
faith  and  gratitude  to  any  other  gift.  "But,"  said  I,  "one  of  ihese 
days,  good  saint,  I  will  do  all  I  promised." 

I  was  then  ready  to  leave,  and  was  impatiently  waiting  for  Madam 
Xavier  to  rise,  when  the  thought  struck  me,  that  1  would  ask  the 
saint  for  something  else,  hoping  she  would  intercede  for  me  again. 

I  knelt,  and  said  :  "  Good  saint,  I  believe  you  to  be  all-powerful 
with  God.  I  am  sure,  that  you  can  obtain  for  me  whatever  you  like. 
Now  do  not  refuse  to  offer  up  my  petition  ;  and,  if  you  obtain  it,  I 
will  be  good  to  the  poor  for  the  rest  of  my  life  ;  and  that  shall  be  my 
offering  of  gratitude  to  you.  I  want  to  marry  well  ;  and  I  want  you 
to  take  away  this  pain  from  my  heart."  Then  I  hesitated  a  moment, 
to  think  what  else  1  should  ask  for,  when  1  happened  to  glance  at 
Madam  Xavier,  who  was  kneeling  with  her  body  nearly  prostrate  to 
the  floor. 

I  knew  she  was  praying  for  me.  My  heart  went  out  in  pity  to- 
wards her  in  that  moment.  I  shuddered  at  the  sacrifices  she  was 
making  to  a  mere  delusion  ;  for  Madam  Xavier  was  beautiful,  refined, 
and  accomplished.  .    ..• 


THE   COLUMN    VEND6mE. 


209 


had  taken  me 
)  the  next  cl;iy 
he  same  time, 
she  was  sure, 
my  grati tilde, 
.-s,"  thought  I, 

for  the  Tan- 
Victories,  we 
tar  was  loaded 
arblc  shibs,  on 
e  and  thanks, 
he  favors,  they 
irgin. 

to  St.  Oene- 
leaning  against 
ler  kin<hiess  to 
X.  I  felt,  that 
for  I  was  sure 
ice  by  thinking 
t  preferred  my 
"  one  of  these 

ing  for  Madnni 
would  ask  tiie 
r  me  again. 
be  all-powerful 
tever  you  like, 
'ou  obtain  it,  I 
lat  shall  be  my 
nd  I  want  you 
ted  a  moment, 
;d  to  glance  at 
\y  prostrate  to 

out  in  pity  tu- 
rifices  she  was 
Lutiful,  refined, 


It  seemed  to  me,  that  she  possessed  every  charm  and  grace,  that 
was  lovely  in  woman.  I  threw  a  glance  up  at  the  statue  of  the  saint, 
and,  i)ointing  to  Madam  Xavier,  I  said:  "flood  saint,  if  there  is 
anytliiiii^  in  t/ii.'!,  I  icaiit  to  kiioic  it.'^  1  wished  the  saint  to  tell  me, 
if  the  Catholic  religion  was  all  trutii,  and  if  the  soul  was  eternally 
benefited  by  so  many  sacrifices  made  on  earth  for  God's  sake. 

Returning  home  we  passed  along  the  quay,  that  borders  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine.  Madam  Xavier  called  my  attention  to  the  statues 
of  Voltaire  and  \\v  ly  the  Fourth,  and  asked  me  why  those  statuciS 
had  been  raised  to  dead  men. 

I  wondered,  that  she  shouKl  ask  so  childish  a  question.  *'  Why," 
said  I,  "  they  are  there  as  tokens  of  the  honor  and  respect,  which  are 
due  to  the  memory  of  the  men  they  represent ; — to  keep  alive  in  the 
minds  of  the  French  jieople  the  exploits  of  one  of  the  greatest  mon- 
archs,  and  the  fame  of  one  of  the  loftiest  geniuses  of  their  country." 

"Ah  !  "  she  replied  :  "that  was  hardly  necessary  ;  for  they  could 
read  all  about  them  in  history,  or  they  could  attend  the  lectures  at 
the  Sorbonne  or  the  French  Academy."  "Why,  Madam,"  said  I, 
"how  many  jieople  pass  those  statues  every  day,  who  do  not  know 
how  to  read  ?  And  how  many  of  them  ever  heard  of  the  Sorbonne 
or  the  French  Academy  ?  IIovv  many,  had  not  those  statues  been 
placed  there,  would  never  have  heard  or  thought  of  Henry  the  Fourth 
or  Voltaire  ?  "  "  Well,"  she  replied,  "  many  of  them  would  have  been 
a  great  deal  better  off,  if  they  had  never  heard  of  Voltaire." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  interior  of  the  scpiare  of  the 
Carrousel,  and  she  pointed  out  to  me  the  statues  of  the  illustrious 
F'renchmen,  whose  names  are  perpetuated  in  the  minds  of  the  people 
by  daily  seeing  them,  forming,  as  they  do,  a  part  of  the  ornaments 
of  the  palace  of  the  I,ouvre.  As  she  did  so  she  said  :  "  I  am  sure 
you  would  not  have  thought  of  these  men  at  this  moment,  had  you 
not  seen  their  statues." 

When  we  reached  the  end  of  the  Rue  Castiglione,  and  approached 
the  Column  Vendome,  we  saw  that  its  base  was  freshly  covered  with 
immortelles,  and  the  railing  decorated  with  wreaths,  and  other  tokens 
of  affection.  They  had  been  placed  there  by  the  adherents  of  the 
Bonapartes,  on  the  day  of  the  Assumption,  which  is  also  the  feast  of 
the  Napoleons. 

The  moment  we  came  in  sight  of  the  column  I  felt  moved  at  the 
generous  tokens  which  lay  there  in  honor  of  the  illustrious  dead,  and 


r'i 


!'5i 


.  ',■■■ 
I 


210 


A   PATRIOTIC   NUN. 


I<> 


u 


I 


I 


'V 


1  exclaimed  :  "  I  admire  that  enthusiasm.  Is  there  anything,  that' 
brings  more  strikingly  before  our  minds  the  genius  and  triumphs  of 
the  lirst  Napoleon,  than  that  monument  ?  How  beautifully  touch- 
ing are  those  wreaths  of  immortelles."  *'  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  it  is 
very  beautiful ;  but  it  does  not  move  me  in  the  least,  although  I 
k:io\v,  that  the  whole  column  is  moulded  of  cannon  captured  in  bat- 
tle by  the  French  armies,  and  it  is  embossed  with  scenes,  which  re- 
jHcsent  the  victories  of  the  conqueror."  Said  1:  "Talk  about 
histories,  and  lectures  !  when  a  peasant  can  read  vc.  unes  of  history 
by  merely  looking  at  that  monument.  That  monument  alone  intUi- 
ences  the  people  more  in  favor  of  the  present  Emi)eror,  than  all  his 
partisan  journals." 

"So  I  believe,"  said  she,  "and  I  admire  the  enthusiasm,  which 
placed  it  there  ;  but  I  would,  that  that  enthusiasm  and  gratitude  were 
expended  on  a  more  worthy  object,  than  an  impious  perjurer  and 
tyrant.  It  is  enough  for  the  world  to  applaud  his  triumphs,  but  it  is 
my  place  to  weep  and  pray  for  his  victims." 

I  reproached  Madam  Xavier  for  her  severity,  and  intimated,  that 
her  being  a  Christian  ought  not  to  make  her  insensible  ^o  talent  and 
genius.  But  she  interrupted  me,  and  tightly  clinched  my  hand,  as 
she  spcke  :  "Remember,  that  I  am  a  Spaniard,  and  a  religious,  and 
that  every  true  Spaniard  and  friend  of  Christ  can  never  but  execrate 
the  memory  of  Bonaparte.  I  admire  that  column,  as  a  work  of  art, 
and  admire  the  generous  enthusiasm,  which  prompted  it ;  but  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  the  man,  whose  exploits  it  is  destined  to  commem- 
orate. I,  a  spouse  of  Christ,  to  be  true  and  faithful  to  Him,  nnist 
ever  espouse  His  cause,  and  cling  to  its  standard,  which  is  tiie  cross. 
And  how  can  I  venerate  the  memory  of  a  man,  who  would  seize 
that  standard,  to  make  of  it  a  mere  ladder  for  his  ambition,  or  would 
trample  it  under  foot  when  raised  to  check  his  perfidious  course  ?" 

After  a  i)ause,  she  continued  :  "  As  those  statues,  but  a  few  mo- 
ments ago,  served  to  remind  you  of  the  illustrious  dead,  so  do  the 
images  and  jnctures,  which  represent  our  Lord  and  His  Blessed 
Mother,  serve  to  remind  us  of  them.  The  jiromptings,  that  impel  the 
world  to  raise  monuments  to  its  great  ones,  spring  from  the  same 
source  as  those  which  animate  us,  when  we  raise  a  statue  to  repre- 
sent Him,  who  redeemed  the  world.  If  a  stone  or  a  canvas  beariuj,' 
His  sacred  image,  recalls  Him  to  our  minds,  we  should  cherish  it 
most  oearly ;  and  nothing  is  unworthy  of  our  affection,  if  it  has  the 


A  PARALLEL. 


211 


anything,  that' 

d  triumphs  of 

itifully  toiich- 

eplied,  "  it  is 

St,  although  I 

l)ture(l  in  bat- 

nes,  which  rc- 

"  Talk   about 

mes  of  history 

nt  alone  inllu- 

3r,  than  all  liis 


power  to  help  us  to  give  one  thought  to  God.  There  are  our  altars, 
which  represent  the  tomb  of  our  I^ord.  You  were  not  shocked,  a 
moment  ago,  at  the  wreaths  of  immortelles,  that  were  strewed  at  the 
foot  of  a  monument  in  honor  of  the  memory  of  a  man  ;  but  you  are 
at  the  flowers  you  see  me  place  on  our  altars,  which  are  placed  there, 
as  an  act  of  honor  and  adoration  to  our  Creator  and  our  God." 

When  we  reached  the  convent,  the  Sui)erior  insisted  upon  my 
telling  her,  what  I  had  asked  for  this  time,  l^ut  I  refused  to  do  so, 
and  all  she  could  get  out  of  me  was,  that  my  prayer  this  time  was  a 
slight  improvement  on  the  first. 


lusiasm,  which 
gratitude  wore 
i  perjurer  and 
mphs,  but  it  is 

intimated,  that 
^  ^o  talent  and 
;(1  my  hand,  as 
X  religious,  and 
er  but  execrate 
a  work  of  art, 
it ;  but  I  have 
;d  to  commcin- 
to  Him,  must 
ch  is  the  cross, 
o  would  seize 
ition,  or  would 
)us  course  ?" 
but  a  few  mo- 
lead,  so  do  tlie 
d  His  Blessed 
that  impel  the 
from  the  sauie 
atue  to  reprc- 
:anvas  bearing 
ould  cherish  it 
n,  if  it  has  the 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 

AN    OLD    .SOI.DIKR'S    VIEWS.  —  SOCIETY    IS    EDIFIED. 

General  Roi.mn  became  my  most  constant  visitor  and  confiden- 
tial adviser.  My  aged  and  honored  friend  thought  it  his  solemn  duty 
to  ])rotect  me  against  the  machinations  of  the  nuns,  esi)ecially  Madam 
Xavier,  "that  Spanish  one,"  in  whose  eyes  the  valiant  old  soldier 
iiiought  he  saw  a  fixed  determination  to  rescue  me  from  "  the  claws 
of  Ine  devil,"  and  shelter  me  within  the  walls  of  a  cloister.  He 
would  pass  the  whole  time  he  was  with  me,  trying  to  persuade  me  to 
leave  them. 

I  said  to  him  one  day :  "  General,  I  wish  you  would  explain  the 
Mass  to  me.  The  truth  is,  that  it  always  looks  to  me  like  a  com- 
edy." "  Hush,"  replied  the  general,  "I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak 
so  disrespectfully  of  the  Nfass."  "Oh  !"  .said  I,  "I  only  do  so  to 
you,  I  would  not  dare  to  say  so  much  to  any  one  of  these  ladies. 
]Jut  it  is  the  truth,  and  I  cannot  help  feeling  so.  liut  do  tell  me 
about  it."  "Tell  you?"  he  replied,  "what  is  there,  that  you  (ion't 
understand  ?  Why,  it  is  simple  enough  ;  the  Mass,  is — is — the  Mass  ! 
1  have  always  attended  Mass."  "Yes;  but  explain  it  to  me." 
"Why,"  said  he,  "there  is  nothing  to  explain.  You  can  see  it,  and 
understand  it,  better  than  I  can  explain  it  to  you  ;  that  is  all  there  is 
about  it." 

I  felt,  that  he  knew  as  little  about  it,  as  I  did.  He  begged  nie 
not  to  let  my  mind  run  too  much  on  those  things,  for  they  would 


II 


212 


THE  POPE  AND  THE  EMPEROR. 


f    i.'i 


never  do  me  any  good :  he  had  heard  them  talked  over  so  much, 
when  he  was  a  boy,  that  he  had  got  enough  of  them  then  to  last  him 
the  rest  of  his  life.  He  then  recommenced  his  persuasions,  and  tried 
to  make  me  promise,  that  I  would  return  to  Paris  at  once.  But, 
failing  to  obtain  from  me  a  decided  answer,  he  grew  impatient,  and 
told  me,  that  I  was  as  headstrong  as  the  worst  of  them. 

"  Yes."  I  re]:)lied,  trying  to  find  a  change  from  his  entreaties, 
"what  powerful  wills  these  ladies  have  !  "  "Well !  "  he  exclaimed  : 
"you  might  as  well  try  to  reason  with  the  thu.'.der,  or  with  the  roar 
of  the  cannon,  for  all  the  effect  it  would  have  on  one  of  them,  when 
they  once  get  'convent'  into  their  heads.  It  is  a  mania  they  never 
get  over.  They  carry  it  with  them  to  the  grave."  "After  all,"  said 
I,  it  IS  a  most  fascinating  kind  of  insanity."  "Well,"  he  sorrow- 
fully replied,  "if  you  think  so,  I  pity  3'ou ;  for  it  shows,  that  they  are 
getting  you.  But  just  wait  until  Lent  comes,  and  you  will  see,  that 
they  will  starve  you  to  death.  Don't  1  know  them  ?  and  have  I  not 
listened  to  them  ?  Just  as  though  a  man  had  nothing  to  do,  or  to 
think  about,  but  to  save  his  soul.  They  are  moral  maniacs  ;  that  is 
the  only  name  for  them." 

"General,"  said  I,  "where  were  you  on  the  15th  of  August?" 
"Why,  you  know  I  was  with  the  Emperor.  We  headed  the  cavalry, 
that  marched  from  the  Champs  de  Mars  to  I'lace  Vendome,  where 
we  hung  fresh  wreatiis  around  the  column.  Why  do  you  want  to 
know?"  Said  I,  "The  thought  just  struck  me,  that  you  jireferred 
the  monument  to  a  crucifix  ;"  and  then  I  related  to  him  how  beauti- 
fully Madam  Xavier  hi\d  explained  away  my  prejudices  against  re- 
ligious images.  The  gereral  frowned  :  he  would  have  preferred,  that 
she  had  chosen  some  other  monument,  to  draw  her  comparison  from, 
to  teach  me  Catholic  doctrine. 

Said  he  :  "  All  these  communities  are  opposed  to  anything  that  has 
the  scent  of  Bonapartism.  They  never  forgave  the  first  Emperor  for 
having  arrested  their  Pope."  "  Their  Pope  !  "  said  I,  "  is  he  not 
just  as  much  your  Pope  as  theirs?"  "  When  he  behaves  himself," 
said  the  general,  "  then  I  acknowledge  him  ;  but  when  he  refuses 
obedience  and  submission  to  the  civil  authorities,  then  I  denounce 
him.  Napoleon  did  right  to  arrest  him  ;  for  what  right  had  he  to 
interfere  with  the  Emperor  ?  "  "  It  appears  to  me,"  1  replied,  "  that  the 
Emperor  interfered  with  the  Pope."  "  Interfered  with  him  ?  Of' 
course,  when  he  fon  d  him  unmanageable,  and  when  the  Pope  refused 


facts,  tl 


GENERAL  ROLLIN   ON   NUNS. 


213 


ver  so  much, 
en  to  last  him 
ons,  and  tried 
once.  Kilt, 
nipatient,  and 

is  entreaties, 

e  exclaimed : 

with  the  roar 

f  them,  when 

ia  they  never 

\fter  all,"  said 

I,"  he  sorrow- 

,  that  they  are 

will  see,  that 

md  have  I  not 

ig  to  do,  or  to 

miacs ;  that  is 

!  of  August?" 
ed  the  cavalry, 
Midome,  where 
lo  you  want  to 
you  ])referred 
ini  how  beauli- 
:es  against  re- 
preferred,  that 
nparison  from, 

•thing  that  has 
it  Kinperor  for 
I,  "  is  he  not 
laves  himself," 
len  he  refuses 
;n  I  denounce 
;ht  had  he  to 
lied,  "  that  the 
th  him  ?  Of  ^ 
:  Tope  refused 


to  render  to  the  Emperor  lawful  allegiance."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  "  the 
Pope  refused  to  obey  Bonaparte  when  he  ordered  him  to  publish  an 
embargo  against  his  English  allies  ;  he  also  refused  to  annul  the  legiti- 
mate marriage  of  Jerome  Bonaparte.  He  further  declined  to  hold 
the  same  position  to  the  Emperor  as  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
holds  to  the  Queen  of  PLngland.  Those  were  a  few  of  the  grievances 
that  the  first  Emperor  had  tn  complain  of,  were  they  not  ?  " 

The  general  threw  me  an  indignant  glance,  and  replied  :  "  Is  that 
the  luay  these  women  teach  you  history  2  "  "  Oh,  no,"  said  I,  "  I 
learned  that  before  I  came  here."  (Which  was  not  true.)  "Well," 
said  he,  "  that  has  a  mighty  strong  odor  'he  convent ;  and  I  am 
surprised  that  you  should  have  ever  heard  so  n)uch  outside  of  one ;  for 
I  never  did.  I  tell  you  these  women  falsify  everything  ;  and  whatever 
facts,  theories,  or  princii)les  they  lay  down,  you  must  believe  just  the 
contrary,  and  then  you  are  sure  to  be  right.  When  these  women 
tell  you  that  the  Emperor  was  wrong,  you  may  depend  upon  it  he 
was  right ;  and  when  they  tell  you  that  man  was  born  to  suffer,  I  will 
swear  that  he  was  born  to  enjoy  himself.  I  have  even  had  them  tell 
me,  that  a  man's  happiness  depends  on  the  mortification  of  his  pas- 
sions, when  /  kno7u  that  he  is  only  hai)py  when  he  indulges  them. 
I  have  always  lived  up  to  that  principle,  and  1  have  always  found  it 
a  true  one." 

"So  have  I  lived  too,  general,"  said  I  ;  "but  I  don't  think  1  am 
any  the  happier  for  it."  "You  think  so  now,"  said  he,  "because 
they  are  getting  around  you.  I  am  tired  of  telling  you  to  look  out 
for  them.  1  beg  of  you  to  be  particularly  on  your  guard  against  that 
Spanish  woman  ;  for  she  is  the  most  determined  of  them  all.  But 
they  are  all  determined  lo  have  you,  and  there  is  no  power  on  earth 
that  can  resist  them.     The  only  safety  is  to  flee  from  them." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  seem  to  have  resisted  them  pretty  well." 
"  Oh,"  he  replied,  "  because  I  am  a  man  ;  and  it  seems  to  be  a  part 
of  their  vocation  to  repel  the  men  and  to  draw  the  women.  If  I  did 
nut  know  them  so  well,  1  would  not  be  half  so  anxious  about  you." 

We  had  just  reached  the  garden  gate,  and  the  general  was  taking 
leave,  when  he  started  back,  as  though  he  had  seen  an  apparition. 
"  Where,"  said  he,  "  did  that  woman  come  from  ?  "  "  That  is  my 
maid,  "  said  I.  "  Well,  she  looks  like  a  very  hard  case  {mauvais 
siijct).  Who  made  you  that  present  ?  "  "  She  is  not  a  gift,"  said 
I.  "she  is  a  loan."     "  Well,"  said  he,  "if  I  were  the  lender,  I  don't 


M 


I 


214 


FEMININE   PHILOSOPHY. 


think  I  should  ever  call  for  her.  To  whom  does  she  belong?" 
•'  The  Princess  Sulkowska,"  I  replied  :  "  but  she  will  hardly  ask  for 
her  again."  "  I  might  have  expected  as  much,"  said  he,  "  for  it  is 
only  our  best  friends  that  will  palm  off  their  broken- crockery  on 
us."  "  Why,  general,"  said  I,  "  her  bad  looks  are  the  only  thing  I 
can  find  to  recommend  her."  "  Oh,  mon  Dieii"  exclaimed  the 
general,  "delivti  me  from  a  homely  woman."  "Deliver  you,  of 
course,  because  you  are  a  man.  But  you  know  the  old  French  pro- 
verb ;  Du  temps  immemorial  femme  prudente  choisit  singe  coifce 
pour  cotifidente  et  pour  r ombre  au  tableau.  (From  time  innnemo- 
rial,  a  prudent  woman  chooses  for  her  confidant  a  dressed-up  monkey 
to  serve  as  a  background  to  the  picture.) 

The  general's  face  lighted  up  :  he  retreated  a  few  steps,  took  off  his 
hat,  and  made  a  ])rofound  bow.  '*  Madam,"  said  he,  "  I  congratulate 
you  on  your  powers  of  resistance  :  these  7uomen  havetit  caught  you  yet^ 

The  autumn  had  come,  and  Laferricire  had  returned  from  his 
chateau.  His  surprise  was  indescribable,  when  I  assured  him  that  I 
would  make  the  convent  my  home.  He  was  not  willing  to  let  me  make 
such  a  sacrifice  ;  but  the  more  he  opposed  it,  the  more  determined  I 
was  to  remain.  Such  is  the  perversity  of  the  human  heart,  when 
untutored  by  faith  ;  that,  when  we  have  suffered,  we  take  pleasure  in 
afflicting  those,  who  have  caused  our  sorrows,  even  though  they  be  our 
hearts'  idols.  Laferridre  became  miserable  on  my  account ;  for  he  felt, 
that  I  must  be  wretched  there,  as  he  could  not  conceive  of  anything 
more  incompatible  with  my  nature,  than  a  cloister.  Yet  I  was  nuich 
hajipier  there,  than  I  had  ever  been  since  the  night  he  sacrificed  me  to 
his  daughter.  He  became  more  devoted  to  me,  than  ever  ;  which  de- 
votion daily  increased  the  number  of  sycophants,  who  sought  my  in- 
fluence. 

When  it  was  known,  that  I  was  to  pass  the  winter  in  the  convent,  it 
created  a  great  dealof  sympathy  in  my  favor,  and  many  began  to  feel, 
tliat  they  had  treated  me  unjustly.  I  deserved  no  credit,  however,  for 
the  sacrifice  I  was  making.  It  was  a  mere  stroke  of  policy  on  my  part  : 
'■''  C'etait  rdirer pour  mieux  sauter^  (It  was  only  drawing  back  in 
order  to  jump  the  farther.) 

But  I  soon  found,  that  it  was  not  so  easy  to  keep  my  resolution,  as 
it  was  to  niaice  it ;  for  the  gay  season  had  begun,  and  everybody  was 
enjoying  himself.  As  the  season  advanced  I  b^ame  more  and  more 
miserable. 


job's  friends  condole. 


215 


lie  belong?" 

lardly  ask  for 

he,  "  for  it  is 

crockery  on 

only  thing  I 

icclainied   the 

liver  you,  of 

French  pro- 

singe   coifce 

ime  inimemo- 

;cl-up  monkey 

)s,  took  off  his 
'.  congratulate 
light  you  yet" 
led  from  his 
id  him  that  I 
0  let  me  make 
determined  I 
u  heart,  when 
ce  pleasure  in 
gh  they  be  our 
nt ;  for  he  felt, 
'Q  of  anything 
st  I  was  much 
xcrificed  me  to 
:er ;  which  de- 
sought  my  in- 

:he  convent,  it 
began  to  feel, 
,  however,  for 
;y  on  my  part  : 
iwing  back  in 

'  resolution,  as 
iverybody  was 
lOre  and  more 


Towards  the  middle  of  October,  the  evenings  began  to  be  intoler- 
ably long.  Every  afternoon  would  bring  me  sonn-  votary  of  the  beau 
monde,  who,  after  relating  to  me  her  triumphs  of  the  preceding  night, 
would  then  condole  with  me  for  not  being  there  to  witness  them,  and 
would  wonder  how  it  was  possible  to  remain  locked  up  in  such  a  place. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE     ANGELUS     BELL  : ITS    CHIMES    TOUGH    THE    DEADENED   CHORD 

OF    FILIAL   AFFECTION. 

In  the  midst  of  the  varied  emotions  of  jealousy,  weariness,  and 
disappointed  ambition  ;  while  my  heart  raged  with  the  most  turbulent 
passions,  and  the  devil  not  unfrecjuently  whispered  in  my  ear  self- 
murder,  as  the  only  panacea  for  all  my  ills  ;  there  was  one  gentle 
soul,  whose  sympathy  and  consolation  reconciled  me  to  life,  and 
snatched  me  from  the  power  of  the  tempter.  Madam  Xavier  was,  I 
firmly  believe,  sent  in  my  way  to  rescue  me  from  the  depths  of  de- 
spair, and  remove  the  clouds  of  prejudice  and  passion  which  hid  from 
my  view  the  sublime  truths  of  revealed  religion. 

She  took  occasion  from  the  approach  of  the  day  of  "  All  Souls," 
to  explain  to  me  the  doctrine  of  praying  for  the  repose  of  the  souls 
of  those  who  are  gone  before  us  into  the  realm  beyond  the  grave. 
She  pointed  out  to  me  the  passage  in  2  Machabees,  ch.  xii.,  ver. 
46,  which  says :  "  It  is  therefore  a  holy  and  a  wholesome  thought  to 
jjray  for  the  dead,  that  they  may  be  loosed  from  sins  ; "  and  in  the 
same  book  she  read  the  passage  where  Judas  Machabee,  making  a 
gathering,  sent  twelve  thousand  drachms  of  silver  to  Jerusalem  for 
sacrifice,  to  be  offered  for  the  sins  of  the  dead.  She  then  referred  to 
our  Lord's  words,  where  he  said  that  sins  against  the  Holy  Ghost 
would  not  be  forgiven  in  this  world  or  the  next ;  which  shows  that 
some  sins  are  remitted  in  the  next  world. 

1  begged  her  to  explain  to  me  what  sin  is  considered  blaspheming 
against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  therefore  unpardonable. 

She  told  me  that  the  Church  teaches  that  there  is  no  fnult,  how- 
ever great,  but  what  can  be  pardoned  ;  for  the  mercy  of  God  is 
always  greater  than  the  perversity  of  man  ; — and  that  no  sinner 


i     .'ffl 


(     1 


I,  I  d 


i!  I 


2l6 


MORE   POWERFUL  THAN   GOD. 


should  ever  despair  of  his  salvation.  But  there  is  a  certain  disposi- 
tion, by  wliich  the  soul  wilfully  rejects  the  light  of  grace,  and  glories 
ill  its  obstinacy,  and  even  dies  impenitent  :  it  is  this  disposition, 
which  our  Lord  so  emphatically  condemned  in  this  place.  This  dis- 
position consists  in  obstinately  closing  our  ears  to  the  voice  of  con- 
science, and  in  resisting  the  evidence  of  the  known  truth.  Such  was 
the  disposition  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  Pharisees,  and  the  ad- 
versaries of  Jesus.  It  was  a  part  of  their  fixed  system  to  contradict 
Him,  and  not  on  any  condition  to  believe  in  Him  ;  and,  no  matter 
what  prodigies  He  might  operate  in  their  presence,  they  were  re- 
solved in  advance  not  to  yield  to  any  testimony  in  His  favor.  For 
when  they  could  no  longer  resist  the  evidence  of  their  senses,  they 
cried  out :  "  It  is  by  IJeelzebub,  the  Prince  of  Devils,  that  He  castetli 
out  devils."  To  despair  of  God's  mccy  is  also  considered  a  blas- 
phemy against  the  Holy  Ghost ;  for  by  ii  v/e  underrate  the  infinity  of 
God's  mercies,  and  disresi)ect  the  innneuse  price  paid  for  our  re- 
demption. 

This  explanation  startled  me  ;  for  the  thouglit  struck  me,  that  it 
must  be  a  terror  to  those,  who  believe  in  the  Catholic  doctrines,  and 
yet,  like  the  Pharisees,  have  not  the  courage  to  embrace  them,  on 
account  of  pride  or  interest  or  prejudice.  And  then  1  began  to 
tremble  for  myself;  but  I  soon  quieted  myself  by  saying  :  "  Oh,  it  is 
all  a  lie!"  I  told  Madam  Xavier,  that  I  did  not  believe,  that 
another  could  in  any  way  be  benefited  by  our  prayers. 

"What  !  "  said  she,  "do  you  doubt  the  power  of  prayer  ?  AVhy,  it 
is- more  powerful  than  God  Himself :  iox  He  cannot  resist  it.  You 
say  you  have  read  the  Bible  ;  but  you  seem  to  know  nothing  about 
it.  Do  you  not  remember,  where  our  Lord  cured  the  daughter  of 
Jairus,  and  the  servant  of  the  centurion,  in  answer  to  the  father's  and 
master's  prayer?  The  servant  did  not  see  our  Lord,  nor  speak  to 
Him,  but  his  master  went  and  pleaded  for  him.  And  did  He  not 
ralje  the  son  of  the  widow  of  Nain  to  life,  just  in  answer  to  her  tears. 
She  did  not  speak;  but  our  Lord,  seeing  her- weep,  raised  her  son  to 
life. 

"  It  would  be  one  of  the  saddest  thoughts  to  me  in  this  life,  if  I 
believed,  that  I  could  no  longer  be  of  service  to  my  departed  parents 
and  friends.  It  is  one  of  the  sweetest  consolations,  that  I  have  it  in 
my  power  to  help  the  loved  ones,  who  have  gone  before  me." 

The  first  of  November,  being  All  Saints'  Day,  and  a  holiday  of  ob* 


THE  BELL-RINGER. 


217 


rtain  disposi- 
,  and  glories 
disposition, 
;e.  This  dis- 
'oice  of  con- 
1.  Such  was 
,  and  the  ad- 
to  contradict 
\d,  no  matter 
hey  were  re- 
s  favor.  For 
r  senses,  they 
at  He  casteth 
dered  a  blas- 
the  infinity  of 
id  for  our  re- 

ick  nie,  that  it 
doctrines,  and 
race  tlieni,  on 
11  I  began  to 
ig  :  "  Oh,  if  is 
:  believe,  that 

yer  ?  Why,  it 
esisl  it.  You 
nothing  about 
B  daughter  of 
he  father's  and 
nor  speak  to 
d  did  He  not 
:r  to  her  tears, 
sed  her  son  to 

1   this  life,  if  I 
l)arted  parents 
lat  I  have  it  in 
'c  nie." 
,  holiday  of  ob- 


ligation, Madam  Xavier  was  free  from  the  duties  of  th'.  schoolroom, 
She  jxassed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  with  me.  The  explanations 
which  she  had  given  me  in  the  morning,  made  me  see  the  Catholic 
doctrine  of  praying  for  the  dead  in  a  pleasing,  and,  to  me,  poetical 
light. 

At  midday  she  left  me  to  my  own  reflections,  and  returned  about 
2  o'clock  with  a  joyful  smile,  as  she  announced  to  me  a  message  from 
the  bell-ringer  of  the  parish  church.  St.  Maude's  parish  church  ad- 
joined the  convent  just  outside  its  walls,  but  was  sejmrate  from  the 
convent,  and  entirely  independent  of  it. 

For  several  weeks  back,  1  had  been  bribing  the  bell-ringer  to  ring 
the  '^  A/i^i^tius"  in  the  morning  so  softly,  that  it  would  not  disturb 
me  in  my  sleep.  The  religious  were  in  the  secret,  and  remonstrated 
with  iiim,  but  to  no  avail ;  as  my  money  would  always  stifle  any  re- 
morse, that  their  words  miidit  have  raised  in  his  conscience.  They 
became  at  last  resigned,  and  would  frequently  laugh  at  a  corruption, 
which  they  had  not  the  power  to  prevent. 

Whenever  1  gave  the  bell-ringer  money,  the  following  morning  it 
was  barely  possible  to  hear  the  bell  at  all ;  but  every  succeeding 
morning  it  would  ring  a  little  louder,  gradually  increasing,  until  it 
would  get  to  a  pitch,  that  made  me  uncomfortable.  Then  I  would 
send  him  more  money. 

Now  I  had  sent  the  bell-ringer  some  money  the  previous  day,  and 
had  gone  to  bed  flattering  myself,  that  I  should  not  be  disturbed ; 
when,  to  my  horror,  the  bell  this  morning  had  pealed  louder  and 
shriller  than  ever.  1  at  once  suspected  that  Josephine,  who  was  my 
agent  in  this  negotiation,  had  kept  the  bribe  ;  but  during  the  interval 
of  the  strokes  I  heard  an  angry  nuu-mur  proceed  from  her  room,  which 
I  regarded  as  a  solemn  protest  of  her  innocence.  I  felt  peri)lexed 
the  whole  morning  and  angry,  not  knowing  what  more  to  do,  to 
abate  the  din  of  that  bell. 

At  last  I  resolved,  that  I  would  double  the  fee,  when  Madam  Xavier 
came  in,  with  her  smiling  face,  to  oft'er  me  the  bell-ringer's  excuses. 
It  was  All  Saints'  Day,  and  he  had  always  had  a  great  devotion  to  the 
saints ;  and  he  feared,  if  he  had  not  rung  loud  enough,  that  he  might 
incur,  not  only  their  displeasure,  but  that  of  the  cure  iiimself,  who 
would  certainly  have  called  him  to  account,  as  it  was  customary  on 
feast  days  and  other  memorable  occasions,  to  ring  the  morning  Aii'^e- 
Ills  longer,  than  on  ordinary  days ;  and  to-morrow  morning,  which 
10 


I 


H 


218 


THE   ANGKLUS. 


would  be  All  Souls'  Day,  he  would  be  obliged  to  ring  it  louder  and 
longer  than  ever.  But  he  promised  to  compensate  by  ringing  gently 
the  rest  of  the  montli. 

Madam  Xavier  then  explained  to  me  the  signification  of  the  Aui^e- 
lits  bell,  which  in  all  Catholic  countries,  and  in  all  religious  commu- 
nities, is  rung  three  times  a  day  in  honor  of  the  mystery  of  the  Incar- 
nation. All  devout  Catholics,  the  instant  they  hear  the  A)i}^elus\)i^\\ 
cease  all  occu[)ations,  for  a  few  seconds,  and  offer  up  a  prayer  of 
thanks  to  Cod  for  having  deigned  to  become  man.  That  evening, 
when  she  bade  me  good-night,  Madam  Xavier  begged  me  to  have  faitii 
in  i)rayer,  and  not  forget  to  pray  for  my  deceased  friends  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  I  heard  the  Angehts  ring.  It  was  near  midniglit  before  I 
closed  my  ejes,  and  I  awoke  towards  early  morn.  I  had  scarcely 
awoke  when  the  church  clock  struck  four. 

I  had  been  dreaming  of  my  mother.  1  do  not  remember  ever  hav- 
ing dreamed  of  her  before  :  and  it  was  such  a  vivid  dream, — I  saw 
her  so  distinctly, — that  the  same  feeling  came  over  me,  which  I  iiatl 
often  felt  in  her  presence,  when  a  child.  It  was  a  sensation  of  fear 
and  shame ;  for,  when  tlie  children  in  the  street,  or  in  the  alleys, 
would  point  her  out,  and  say  to  me,  "There  is  your  mother  ;  "  I  used 
to  siirink  at  the  very  name  of  mother :  but,  if  I  saw,  that  she  was  not 
looking  for  me,  shame  would  take  the  place  of  fear,  and  I  would  tiuu 
away,  so  as  not  to  see  her. 

As  I  awoke,  the  thought  of  my  mother  revived  most  bitter  feelings ; 
for  my  dislike  for  her  had  increased  with  years.  1  seldom  thought  of 
her;  but  there  were  times,  when  her  memory  would  thrust  itself  upon 
me,  like  some  v.eird  phantom,  and  1  could  hardly  realize,  that  \\v.i 
past  had  been  a  stern  reality.  1  then  fell  to  thinking  over  my  troubled 
life,  and  I  accused  my  mother  of  being  the  cause  of  it  all.  I  even 
hated  her,  because  I  coidd  not  wrest  my  heart  from  Laferriere.  I 
felt,  that,  if  I  had  known  a  mother's,  a  father's,  a  sister's,  or  a  broth- 
er's love  and  care,  my  heart  never  wotild  have  knitted  itself  to  his,  as 
it  had  done.  ' 

That  night  too,  the  recollection  of  my  mother  humbled  me,  and 
when  that  sense  of  fear,  and  shame  i)assed  over  me,  1  felt  beneath 
Laferriere.  and  I  wondered  how  I  had  ever  dared  to  aspire  to  be  his 
wife,  when  I  was  the  child  of  such  a  woman  !  Then  one  by  one 
those  scenes,  which  1  had  witnessed  in  my  childhood,  came  up  before 
me  ;  but  the  sense  of  shame  soon  turned  into  rage  and  a'.iger,  and  I 


ALL   SOULS'   DAY. 


2ig 


it  louder  and 
inging  gently 

of  the  Aui^e- 

lous  coniniu- 

of  the  I  near- 

Afi^^c/us  bell, 

a  prayer  of 

hat  evening, 

to  have  faith 

in  the  morn- 

light  before  I 

had  scarcely 

iber  evtrr  hav- 

ream, — I  saw 

,  which  I  had 

sai.ion  of  feaf 

in  the  alleys, 

ther  ;  "  1  used 

at  she  was  not 

.1  I  wouUl  turn 


)ittcr  feelini 


;s; 


oni  thought  of 
ust  itself  uijon 
alize,  that  th;.' 
:r  my  troubled 
t  all.  I  even 
Laferriere.  1 
r's,  or  a  broth- 
tself  to  his,  as 

nbled  nie,  and 
1  felt  beneath 
spire  to  be  his 
n  one  bv  one 
ime  up  before 
i  a'.iger,  and  I 


buist  out  into  imprecations  on  my  mother.  Those  scenes  of  drunk- 
enness and  wanton  cruelty  appeared  to  nie  still  more  hideous,  when 
I  contrasted  them  with  the  daily  examples  of  those,  who  surrounded 
me. 

The  recollection  too,  that  she  had  not  only  brought  disgrace  and 
misfortune  upon  her  children,  but  had  defamed,  by  wilful  falsehoods, 
those  liol)-  beings,  who  were  so  many  living  monuments  of  self-sacri- 
fice and  untiring  devotion, — whose  every  thought  and  aspiration  was 
for  the  eternal  good  of  souls, — nearly  drove  me  mad.  1  was  furious 
at  the  thought  that  she  had  poisoned  so  many  souls  against  them, 
who  would  never  know  the  truth  ;  when  the  only  wrong,  that  any 
nuns  had  ever  done  her,  was  to  give  her  shelter  in  her  distress  ! 
To  know  that  this  woman,  this  Avoman-monster,  was  my  mother  ! 
And  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  as  though  I  would  have  strangled  her. 

1  next  turned  to  Clod,  and  began  to  ujibraid  Him  for  having  given 
mc  snch  a  mothm".  I  asked  Him,  how  He  thought  I  could  be  good, 
with  so  much  to  struggle  against ;  and  I  kept  on  rei)roaching  Him, 
until  at  last  I  burst  into  tears  and  cursed  the  day,  that  I  was  born. 
I'.ut  my  tears  did  not  reliexe  my  anguish  ; — they  only  aggravated  it. 
Tiiey  seemed  to  bring  back  other  recollections  of  the  past,  which 
began  to  crowd  thicker  and  thicker  upon  me,  and  were  conp'tid  with 
the  smilings  ot  iuy  guilty  conscience  ;  until,  maddened  with  remorse 
and  desi)air,  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  spoke  to  my  mother,  as  though 
she  were  standing  before  me,  and  1  said  to  her  :  "  li yon  had  not  been 
my  mother,  all  this  would  not  have  been  !  " 

in  the  midst  of  my  angry  ravings  the  Aiii^c'liis  began  to  ring.  I 
threw  myself  back  upon  my  i)illow  ;  but  I  was  so  excited,  that  its 
vibrations  did  not  disturb  me  :  they  rather  soothed  me,  as  J  lay  there 
([uietly  listening  to  its  chime.  I  thouglit  at  once  of  Madam  Xavier. 
1  knew  that  she  was  in  the  chapel  praying  for  hei  lej)arted  friends. 
The  thought  of  her  brought  me  comfort ;  and,  all  at  once,  I  recol- 
lected h'a-  parting  words  :  "  Have  faith  in  prayer,  and  do  not  forget 
to  i)ray  for  your  deceased  friends  in  the  morning  when  the  A//,i;c///s 
rings."  An  instant  afterwards  found  me  kneeling  beside  my  bed, 
praying  for  my  mother ;  and  my  jirayer  ke])t  cadence  with  the 
tolling  of  the  bell,  as  I  three  times  exclaimed  :  "  Clod  foridve  her  I 
God  forgive  her!  (lod  forgive  her!"  I  then  lay  down  again,  and 
listened  in  l.)reathless  silence,  to  the  ringing  of  the  bell. 

What  a  change  had  come  over  mc  I     All  my  anger,  and  all  that 


I't'Siii 

i-tf 


220 


THE   QUALITY  OF  MERCY. 


•fi  ^1 


hatred,  which  I  had  nourished  for  years,  had  gone.  My  bosom  waj 
jjeacefiil,  and  at  rest:  I  had  forgiven  luy  mother.  It  was  a  great 
grace,  that  God  bestowed  upon  me  ;  and  it  was  as  eftectual,  as  it 
was  lasting.  More  than  six  years  have  passed  away  since  that  merci- 
ful hour,  and  since  that  time  I  have  never  cherished,  but  kindest  sen- 
timents of  synipatliy  and  regret  for  my  unfortunate  and  erring  motlicr. 

That  awakening  of  pity,  and  affeciion  for  my  mother  is  to  ino 
an  evidence  of  Ciod's  unspeakable  goodness  and  mercy ;  and  that 
He  should  have  bestowed  upon  me  such  an  inestimable  blessing,  at 
a  moment  too,  when  I  was  upbraiding  Him,  and  rebelling  against 
His  Providence,  makes  me  believe,  that  it  was  surely  pleasing  to  Him, 
that  1  prayed  for  her.  \Vhat  else  could  have  moved  Him  to  so  much 
coin[xission  ?  To  me  it  is  a  proof  that  it  is  "  a  holy  and  a  whole- 
some thought  to  pray  for  the  dead,  that  they  may  be  loosed  from 
their  sins." 

Infidel  as  I  was,  I  was  not  unconscious  of  the  effect  of  my  prayers. 
I  attributed  it  to  my  nature,  and  not  to  grace ;  but  I  was  so  over- 
joyed, that  I  resolved  that,  henceforth,  1  would  pray  for  my  mother 
whenever  I  heard  the  Angehis  ring. 

From  that  morning  the  ringing  of  the  Angelas  never  disturl)ed 
me  ;  for  1  hailed  it  as  a  chime,  that  summoned  me  to  a  pleasing  dut) . 
If  all  those,  who  nourish  hatred  in  their  breasts  against  departed 
souls,  will  but  raise  their  hearts  to  Clod  and  pray  Him  to  forgive 
those  souls,  they  too  will  feel,  what  I  ^elt  on  that  All  Souls'  Day,  the 
first  time  I  prayed  for  my  mother,  as  the  Angelas  rung. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

A   FEMALE    "  INQUISITOR." 

The  world  of  fashion  had  just  returned  from  the  summer  resorts, 
and,  nearly  every  at"ternoon,  some  one  of  its  votaries  would  call  on  me. 
These  visits  had  anything  but  a  salutary  effect.  The  moment  I  was 
left  alone,  I  would  brood  over  my  solitary  life,  contrasting  it  with  the 
gay  and  exciting  scenes,  of  which  they  told  me. 

These  visitors  would  occasionally  drop  some  word,  that  would  ex- 
cite niy  envy  and  jealousy  to  such  a  pitch,  that  I  felt  like  rushing  out 


AN  INTIMATE   ENEMY. 


221 


at  once  into  the  whirlpool  of  fashion  and  pleasure.  To  give  vent  to 
my  violence,  if  one  of  my  visitors  happened  to  remark,  that  she  had 
'seen  or  spoken  to  I.aferricre,  I  wcUd  sit  down  and  write  to  him  in  a 
rcjjroacliful  and  abusive  strain. 

The  following  letter  from  him,  in  answer  to  one  of  mine,  indicates 
the  state  of  my  feelings  at  that  time. 

"  Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  Paris,  Nov.  Wi,  1867. 
"  Mv  POOR  Child, 

"  You  are  the  most  foolish  and  hot-headed  little  thing  I  ever  met. 
On  reading  your  letter,  I  asked  myself,  if  the  cold  had  turned  my 
brain  ;  for  I  could  not  understand  a  word  of  it.  How  could  you  give 
way  to  such  absurd  suspicions  ?  The  lady,  of  whom  you  speak,  must 
be  stuj>idly  vain,  if  she  supposes  for  an  instant,  that  I  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  her.  I  beg  of  you,  my  dear  child,  not  to  write  me  any  more 
such  letters  ;  they  are  unworthy  both  of  you  and  of  me.  We  ought 
to  have  unlimited  confidence  in  each  other,  and  to  trample  upon  all 
the  petty  spite  of  those,  who  only  wish  to  estrange  us. 

"  Married  women  are  jealous  of  widows.  They  cannot  forgive 
them  for  being  rid  of  their  husbands.  This  sentiment  is  the  only  one, 
that  can  explain  their  conduct.  Do  not  then  be  so  foolish  any  more, 
I  beg  of  you.  Never  forget,  that  there  is  a  sacred  tie  between  us 
two,  which  nothing  can  break  ;  and  do  not  add  any  imaginary  tor- 
ments to  the  grief  of  our  separation.  You  deserve  to  be  punished 
for  your  unjust  reproaches.  You  are  a  bad  child  ;  but  still  I  love 
you.     You  are  ever  too  in  my  thoughts,  the  chief  interest  of  my  life. 

"  I  try  to  do  what  is  best  for  your  peace  and  happiness,  and  still 
you  are  not  satisfied.  You  call  me  cold,  uncivil,  and  tiresome.  I 
grant  you  all  that,  my  child.  But  you  know  I  love  you.  You  should 
have  entire  confidence  in  my  aftection,  and  not  give  way  to  jealousy. 
Although  you  sav,  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  love,  yet  I  only  think 
of  seeing  you. 

"  LaferriJike." 


Among  this  class  of  ''  intimate  enemies,"  as  the  French  call  them, 
was  a  Mrs.  Sham,  a  recently  married  lady.  She  had  formerly  been  a 
"  belle  "  in  America.  When  I  met  her  in  Paris,  she  was  a  widow  of 
thirty-five,  who  loved  show,  and  had  only  a  moderate  income  to  sup-{ 
port  it. 


222 


AN   OUJKCT   OF   CHARITY. 


I  knew  thai,  slic  was  dyiii;^'  to  yet  marriL'd,  and  I  was  always  giving 
licr  all  the  opportunities  I  could,  by  liaving  her  invited  to  the  'i'liileries 
and  llie  ministerial  halls,  and  sentling  her  lioxes  for  tlie  theatre  aii(l 
opera.  I  knew,  too,  that  she  was  extremely  selfish,  envirjuij,  and 
jealous  :  otherwise  she  would  iiave  sought  to  retmn  my  kindness,  by 
trving  to  make  me  more  ])opular  among  the  Anieri<;ans  ;  instead  of 
which,  she  did  all  she  could  to  keep  them  aloof  from  me,  lest  I  sliould 
assist  them  too,  and  they  might  suspect  who  was  her  patron.  I!ul  I 
despised  iier  meanness,  and  would  not  permit  it  to  inllueiu  e  me  again>t 
her.  1  looked  upon  her,  and  treated  iier  like  what  slu;  really  wa:^r  a 
dashing  object  of  charity  ;  for  she  was  linedooking,  clever,  gracehil, 
and  refmed  ;  and  I  felt  it  ajjity,  that  so  many  natural  gilts  should  not 
have  a  chance  of  success,  since  it  was  on  tlu-m  alone,  that  she  relied 
for  securing  a  husband.  On  account  of  her  age,  beside's,  1  felt  that 
no  time  Avas  to  be  lost  :  so  1  did  as  much  for  her,  as  if  she  were  the 
most  serviceable  friend  1  had. 

One  day  she  came  to  me  and  conllded  tc>  me  that  she  was  engaged 
to  a  wealthy  American,  and  shortly  afterwards  slie  was  married.  .U 
the  wedding  my  iViends  gathered  rountl  me.  and  told  me,  that  they 
exi)ected  that  it  woakl  be  my  turn  next,  and  wanted  >ui  explaiuviion, 
wliv  1  deferred  mv  marriage  so  lont;'.  'I'lkir  intiuiries  Ijnnini'.t  back 
vividly  to  me  my  disapi>ointment,  and  i  almost  wished  1  had  not 
come  to  the  wedding  ;  for  1  trembled  lest  some  one  should  see 
my  emotion.  J  concealed  it.  as  best  1  could,  by  railing  at  the  mar- 
riage state,  and  vaunting  my  own  position,  declaring  that  there  was 
no  condition  in  life  so  enviable,  as  to  be  young,  wealthy,  and  a  witlow. 
I  was  loath,  1  said,  to  resign  these  advantages,  antl  would  only  do  >o, 
when  r  had  become  surfeited  of  freedom  ;  whieii  would  not  be  very 
soon. 

I  was  glad,  that  my  friend  had  succeeded  so  well,  for  her  husband 
was  immensely  rich,  and  belonged  to  a  good  old  family. 

I,aferri6re  escorted  me  home  from  the  wedding,  and  remarked,  that 
he  was  glad,  that  she  was  married  and  out  of  the  way  ;  for  she  was 
the  most  selfish  intriguer  he  had  ever  met.  He  told  me,  that  several 
old  ladies  had  come  up  to  him,  and  warmly  thanked  him  for  all  the 
fiivors  he  had  showered  upon  Mrs.  Sham,  that  winter  ;  and  had  talked 
to  him  condolingly.  He  divined  at  once  what  it  all  meant,  that  Mrs. 
Sham,  my  charming  protegee,  had  made  them  believe,  that  he  was  in 
love  with  her,  and  wanted  to  marry  her ;  and  he  could  see  by  the 


GRATITUDE  ! 


223 


alwavs  triviiii; 
0  the  'I'liilcries 
K'  tlu-atic  mill 

cnviou;;,  ami 
y  kindness,  hy 
s  ;  instead  of 
,  lost  I  should 
'atntii.  iliii  I 
u  I'  nii.vu'aiii>t 
t;  rcall)'  wasr  a 
ever,  graceful, 
ifts  should  jiot 
that  slit'  relii'd 
les,   I    fell  iluit 

she  were  the 

was  enj.faged 
married.     .\t 

me,  that  thi'V 
1)  e.xiilaiuuioa, 

l.'fonght  hack 
.'d  1  had  not 
e  should  s;.'e 
g  at  the  iiiar- 
ihat  there  was 
,  and  a  witlow. 
dtl  only  do  so, 
Id  not  be  very 

r  her  husband 

emarkcd,  that 
;  for  she  was 
?,  that  several 
lim  for  all  the 
nd  had  talked 
ant,  that  Mrs. 
hat  lie  was  in 
Id  see  by  the 


cxjircssion  of  her  husband's  face  and  his  manner  towards  him,  that 
lie  was  most  dcltuled  of  all. 

'I'he  Viscount  had  always  tried  to  make  me  drop  this  lady  ;  but  I 
would  not  listen  to  him,  and  freiiuently  1  would  favor  her,  without 
his  knowledge,  asking  him  for  tickets  in  some  other  name,  i'.ut  this 
time  he  touched  a  sensitive  chord,  when  iie  intimated  that  she  had 
made  others  believe,  that  he  was  in  love  with  her  ;  for  1  was  extremely 
jealous,  that  everybody  should  think,  that  I  was  the  only  woman  in 
Paris,  whom  he  cared  for,  and  that  the  delay  in  our  marriage  should  be 
attributed  more  to  me,  than  to  him.  No  one  knew,  that  I  really  loved 
him,  except  the  ()'( Jormans  ;  for  I  pretended  to  everybody  else  that  I 
objected  to  marry  h\w  on  account  of  his  age.  I  was  too  proud  to  let 
anyone  suspect  that  he  would  not  marry  me  in  spite  of  his  daughter. 

About  the  time  1  came  to  the  convent,  this  lady  and  her  husband 
went  to  Baden  Baden,  and  other  fiishionable  resorts. 

She  returned  to  I'aris  elated  with  her  success.  Siie  had  captivated 
numberless  crowned  heads,  princes,  dukes,  aiul  so  on,  down  to 
cavaliers. 

She  was  constantly  calling  on  me  and  telling  me  how  hajipy  she 
was,  and  how  her  husband  let  her  have  her  own  way  ;  that  she  was 
as  free  as  a  widow ;  and  she  wondered  why  I  did  not  get  married 
juyself  She  was  always  sure  to  mention  I.aferriere's  name,  and  her 
conversation  would  so  upset  me,  that  the  moment  1  was  left  alone,  I 
found  the  convent  as  gloomy  as  a  i)rison-cell. 

Laferriere  would  beg  of  me  not  to  listen  to  this  lady,  who  was 
telling  me  these  things  simply  to  make  me  unhajjjjy.  "Why,"  I  asked, 
"  shoulrl  she  wish  to  make  me  miserable,  when  I  was  the  best  friend, 
that  she  ever  had." 

"  J'or  that  very  reason,"  he  replied.  *'  Do  you  suppose  the  woman 
will  ever  forgive  you  for  patronizing  her?  Never  in  this  world  ;  and 
she  only  comes  here  now  to  take  her  revenge  by  tormenting  you. 
I  have  noticed  all  my  life,"  said  he,  "  that  you  have  to  be  extremely 
cautious  about  assisting  son)e  jjeople,  unless  you  are  willing  to  create 
for  yourself  implacable  enemies.  Take  a  cold  hearted,  i)roud,  am- 
bitious woman  ;  and,  if  you  could  read  her  heart,  you  would  see 
that  the  depth  of  her  enmity  towards  you,  is  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  of  benefits  she  has  received  from  you." 

')ne  Sunday  in  the  middle  of  November  the  rain  was  falling  in 
ton  cuts.   There  was  a  bright  fire  blazing  on  the  hearth.     I  was  stand- 


224 


A  VISIT  AND   A   COMEDY. 


^  >s 


tn: 


ing  by  the  window  amusing  myself  by  turning  now  and  then  from 
ga/ing  at  the  dismal  autumnal  scene  without,  towards  the  lire,  which 
threw  such  a  cheery  and  pleasant  light  on  everything  witliin. 

A  Sister  came  and  announced,  that  Mrs,  Sham  and  her  husband 
had  arrived  in  an  open  barouche,  and  wanted  to  know,  if  I  could 
receive  them.  The  thought  struck  me,  that  they  must  have  started 
for  the  races,  but  the  storm  having  overtaken  them  had  driven  tlicm 
to  the  convent  for"  shelter.  Desides,  I  was  sure  that  she  had  come 
to  ask  some  favor  of  me. 

'•'■  Ma  chere  belle  I''  she  exclaimed  as  she  entered  the  room,  "I 
don't  think  you  have  another  friend  in  the  wide  world  that  loves  you 
as  I  do.  Only  think  ;  to  drive  out  six  miles  in  this  awful  storm, 
just  for  the  pleasure  of  embracing  you  !  " 

Said  I  :  "  How  sweet  of  you,  dearest !  But  you  know,  that  you 
have  but  one  rival,  and  that  is  this  solitude  ;  of  which  1  am  enamored. 
But  the  moment  I  see  you,  1  become  faithless  to  it,  and  fctl,  that 
I  still  i)refer  solitude  for  two."  "Tell  me,  dear  one,"  she  cimtinued, 
"are  you  as  hai)py  and  as  contented  as  ever?"  "Oh,  yes:  this 
claustral  life  is  what  my  soul  has  ever  yearned  for,  and  it  is  only 
after  drinking  long  and  deei)ly  of  its  i)eaceful  joys,  that  one  can 
truly  appreciate  the  boon  of  being  immured  with  angels."  (At  tliat 
moment  I  would  have  preferred  being  in  I'aris  among  the  demons.) 

"  I  saw  the  Viscount  last  week,"  said  she,  "  at  the  opera,  and  he  was 
looking  so  well !  I  tried  to  catch  his  eye  ;  but  he  had  his  lorgnette 
fixed  the  whole  evening  on  a  beautiful  blonde,  who  sat  in  the  prosce- 
nium opposite.     He  seemed  thoroughly  oblivious  to  everything  else." 

This  time  she  ^  renched  my  heart  ; — but  I  burst  out  laughing  as  I 
exclaimed  :  "  Tl  j  poor  old  Viscount  !  how  glad  I  am  to  hear,  that 
he  was  looking  well,  and  that  he  was  trying  to  anuise  himself!  it 
completes  my  happiness,  to  know  that  he  is  happy  too." 

"  Yon  call  him  old.  Why  he  is  the  handsomest  man  I  know  ;  he 
doesn't  look  over  forty."  "Well,"  said  I,  "he  always  seems  to  me 
like  an  old  papa.  You  know  how  it  is  ;  after  a  man  has  been  de- 
voted to  you  so  long  as  the  Viscount  has  been  to  me,  we  would  get 
tired  of  him,  if  he  wer?  Ajiollo  himself" 

The  husband  did  not  relish  this  remark  ;  for  they  both  exchanged 
glances,  and  appeared  confused.  "  Oh  no,"  she  replied,  blushing 
up  to  the  eyes :  "  that  has  never  been  my  experience,  and  Clod  for- 
bid, that  it  ever  should  be;  for,  with  nie,  it  is  just  the  contrary; 


THE   COMEDY   CONTINUED, 


225 


each  hour  'ncreases  my  affection  ; "  and  she  gave  her  husband  her 
hand,  and  he  pressed  it  to  his  Hps.  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  I  can  under- 
stand that,  wlien  we  have  once  consented  to  wed  a  man.  I5nt  I 
mean  these  cavalieri  serveiiti,  these  men  who  become  our  willing 
slaves,  men  whom  we  never  intend  to  wed  ;  I  believe,  that  as  their 
love  increases  for  us,  we  become  tired  of  them." 

The  husband  remarked,  that  that  was  too  hard  on  the  men,  "  Oh," 
said  I,  "  they  deserve  it  all,  and  even  worse  than  they  get,  for  their 
inconstancy."  "Hut,"  said  he,  "it  appears,  that  you  think  woman 
to  be  the  inconstant  one."  "  Only  such  women  as  your  wife  and 
myself,"  said  I  ;  "  who  have  lived  and  learned  ;  but  she  has  had  better 
hick  than  1  hav^,  to  have  found  one,  on  whom  she  is  willing  to  risk  all. 

"  Your  wife,  however,  has  a  far  more  confiding  nature,  than  I 
have.  The  truth  is,  that  I  have  been  ]:)crverted  by  Italian  literature. 
An  Italian  author  says  :  '  Men  are  inconstant  ; — inconstant  in  love, 
inconstant  in  hate,  constant  only  in  their  inconstancy."  My 
own  experience  made  me  an  easy  convert  to  this  belief,  which  is 
the  principal  doctrine  taught  in  my  Cathecism  ;  and  I  have  found 
in  it  an  excellent  spiritual  exercise  ;  for,  by  making  it  my  daily  med- 
itation, I  have  succeeded  in  subduing  my  ingenuous  confidence  in 
the  other  sex,  which  formerly  led  me  into  so  many  errors." 

She  appeared  scandalized,  and  exclaimed  :  "  How  can  you  use 
the  phraseology  of  a  divine  to  make  such  a  confession  ?  "  Said  I, 
"  If  it  displeases  you,  I  will  come  down  to  the  common  vulgar  style, 
and  tell  you,  that  the  only  way  to  get  even  with  the  men,  is  to  know 
them  as  they  are,  and  not  as  they  appear  to  be,  and  to  deal  with 
them  accordingly."  "  What  would  the  world  come  to,"  asked  ^he 
husband,  "if  it  were  made  up  of  such  women  ?  "  "  vVhat  is  it  coming 
to,"  returned  I,  "filled  with  such  men?"  "Well,  well,"  exclaimed 
his  wife,  "what  an  enigma  you  are!  I  always  imagined  you  were 
dead  in  love  with  the  Viscount." 

"  How  could  you  think  such  a  thing,  when  you  sec  me  seclude 
myself  from  him,  and  persist  in  deferring  our  marriage  indefinitely  ?  " 

"Your  coming  here,"  she  replied,  "was  a  stronger  proof  than  ever, 
that  you  were  beside  yourself  in  iove  \  for  1  always  looked  ui)on  this 
seclusion,  as  the  master-stroke  of  an  arch  cocpiette." 

The  harp  was  uncovered.     "  Do  play  me  an  air,"  said  she  :  "  you 

have  so  much  time  to  practise,  I  am  sure,  that  you  i)Uvy  beautifully. 

My  engagements,  T  am  sorry  to  say,  have  condemned  nie  to  abandon 
10^= 


■'1 
1.1 


226 


MUSIC   AND   A   TABLEAU. 


!  I 


my  harp  altogether.  Play  me  I.aferriere's  favorite."  "  Ah,"  said  T, 
"  he  loves  them  all  :  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  choose.  I  will 
]jlav  you  my  favorite  air,  by  (iounaud.  It  is  taken  from  the  parting- 
scene  in  the  opera  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  where  the   love-sick  swain 

says : 

"  '  It  is  the  dawn,  it  is  tlic  lark; 

and  Juliet  replies : 

"  '  Oh  non,  cc  n'cst  pas  le  jour,  ce  n'ost  pas  le  jour  ; 
C'cst  Ic  tloux  rossigiiol,  <[ui  eliaiite  ses  amoiiis.'  " 

AVhile  I  was  i)laying,  my  friend  threw  herself  listlessly  on  tlie  nig 
before  the  fire,  with  her  face  turned  tov.'ards  me,  and,  in  a  half-re- 
clining posture,  she  assumed  a  careless  artistic  ]>ose,  as  though  she 
were  listening  enraptured  to  the  music.  'Die  whole  formed  a  ]>retty 
l)icline.  The  outlines  of  her  graceful  figure  were  delineated  by  the 
bla/.ing  fire,  wliich  made  a  most  loewitching  background.  Her  hus- 
band soon  approached  her.  Slie  rejjosed  her  head  against  him  ; 
then  slowlv  and  languitUy  she  raised  her  Jiand  towards  him,  which 
he  clasped  in  his  ;  then  curving  her  head  gently  backward,  initil  their 
eyes  met,  they  both  remained  motionless,  as  though  spellbound  by 
each  other's  glances,  and  lost  to  all  the  world  beside. 

The  i)icturc  now  displeased  me  ;  for  I  found  the  tableau  too  living. 
I  nervously  seized  the  strings,  and  by  a  spasmodic  movement  of  my 
hands,  two  of  them  snapped  in  twain  ;  which  instantly  startled  them 
from  their  re\cry.  1  si)iang  towards  them,  as  though  1  coidd  have 
killed  them  both,  for  having  excited  emotions  in  my  breast,  which 
made  the  convent  seem  to  me  a  hell. 

In  an  instant  she  was  on  her  feet  ;  and  looking  intently  at  me,  she 
exclaimed  :  "  Why,  how  you  tremble  !  the  strings  sna[)ping  frightened 
you,  much  as  they  did  me." 

"  1  am  superstitions,"  said  J,  "  and  wlienever  a  string  snaps  amidst 
a  train  of  thought,  J  look  upon  it  as  an  omen,  that  mv  Impes  are 
mere  illusinns."  "  ]»ut,"  said  the  husband,  "how  can  iv;//  have  illu- 
sions, when  you  have  lost  all  faith  in  men  ?"  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  I  build 
them  on  everything  else."  *'  I'ut,"  rejoined  his  wife,  "  what  else  is 
there  worth  buildint:  them  on?" 

1  ])retended  not  to  hear  the  question  :  fi)r  I  did  not  unow  how  to 
answer  it ;  and  we  continued  to  converse,  until  the  iiusband  re- 
marked, that  it  was  getting  late  and  was  time  to  leave. 

1  acconi[)anied  her  to  the  door.     She  placed  her  arm  around  my 


-'I 
J 


THE   OBJECT  OF  THE   VISIT. 


227 


waist,  and  drew  me  near  to  her  heart,  and  then  repeated  :  "  Au 
rcvoir,  ma  belle  ;  how  I  wish  you  were  as  happy  as  I  am  ;  and  how 
sid  it  makes  me  to  leave  you  in  this  dreary  place."  She  had  already 
descended  three  of  the  stone  steps,  when  she  turned  around,  as 
though  an  idea  had  just  struck  her,  and  asked  me,  when  the  Corps 
J.egislatif  would  meet.  "On  Wednesday,"  said  I.  "What,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  so  soon  !  "  By  this  time  she  was  back  into  the  corridor. 
,"  How  sorry  I  am,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  did  not  know  it  before  , 
for  then  I  could  have  secured  my  tickets.  15ut  now  it  is  too  late  ; 
for  every  ticket  must  be  disposed  of.  15ut  how  glad  I  am,  that  1 
happened  to  think  of  it ;  for  you,  dearest,  can  always  do  imi)ossil)il- 
itii's.  I  would  not  miss  going  for  anything ;  for  I  want  to  hear  the 
P'mperor  read  his  speech. 

"  1  think  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sights  in  the  world,  to  see 
that  hall  filled  with  the  deputies,  senators,  and  the  diplomatic  corps, 
all  dressed  in  their  uniforms.  Besides,  how  cpieenly  the  Empress  looks, 
as  she  passes  among  them,  wearing  her  long  train  !  and  how  gracefully 
she  ascends  the  throne  and  bows  :  she  must  have  practised  several 
days  in  advance  ;  for  it  is  imi)ossible  to  manage  such  a  tremendously 
long  train,  make  such  a  short  curve,  and  do  it  so  gracefully  and  fault- 
lessly as  she  does,  unless  she  has  had  some  pretty  sharp  ])ractice. 
\\'hy,  she  does  it  so  admirably,  diat  one  would  think  that  tiie  train  itself 
was  a  part  of  her  body  ; — and  she  smiles  so  sweetly  when  she  bows 
amidst  the  ui)roar  of  voices  !  1  don't  know  anything  more  exciting 
than  to  have  )'our  ears  deafened  by  the  cries  of  Vhe  P Empcrcur  ! 
Vive  P  Jill pcratr ice  !  Vive  le  petit  Prince  !  And  her  figure  comes 
out  in  such  cliarming  relief,  as  slie  stands  in  front  of  the  Cent  Gardes, 
who,  with  their  steel  tra[)piiigs,  look  so  ferociously  lieauliful.  J5e- 
sides,  their  brilliant  armor  shows  off  the  Empress's  costume  to  such 
advantage.  ,. 

"  Do,  dearest,  see  that  Tarn  not  disappointed.  See,  that  I  have  a 
ticket  for  my  husband  and  myself,  and,  if  it  is  possible,  another  for  a 
friend.  I  kncMV  you  will  not  disai)[)oint  me."  "But,"  said  I,  "yon 
know  that  Laferriere  adores  you,  you  have  only  to  drop  him  a  line, 
he  will  send  tlu  m  instantly  to  you  if  he  has  any  left."  That  remark 
pleased  her  so  nnicb,  that  it  would  almost  have  compensated  for  a 
disapi)ointment.  She  looked  at  her  husband  to  see,  if  he  had  taken 
it,  liiit  instantly  continued,  in  a  tone,  that  meant  to  convey  to  him, 
that  it  would  almusl  be  encouraging  Laferriere  loo  nnicli,  if  she  made 


|:y 


.1 


.  i-  I 


A''-14\ 


fr- 


i 


M 


!  H 


k    ' 


228 


THE   AFTER-PIECE. 


such  an  advance.  "  No,"  said  she,  "  after  all  his  kindness,  I  feel  that  it 
would  be  indelicate  for  me  lo  v;nte  to  him.  No,  I  prefer  to  depend 
entirely  upon  you,  chcre  belle.  Don't  fail  me  this  time  ;  for  it  would 
break  my  heart." 

Said  I  :  "  I  will  write  to  Laferriere  as  soon  as  you  leave  ;  and  the 
strongest  argument  I  can  use  in  your  favor  is  to  tell  him  the  claim  you 
have  on  my  gratitude  ;  for,  really,  to  come  out  so  far  to  see  me  in 
sucli  a  storm  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  interrupting  me,  "  the  moment  I  saw  the 
heavens  cloud  over,  I  ordered  the  carriage  ;  for  I  feared  you  n)i;;ht 
be  lonely  ;  and  our  stupid  coachman  took  the  barouche,  thinking  we 
were  going  to  the  races." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  your  beautiful  costume  made  me  suspect  the 
same  thing,"  "  Oh,  my  darling,"  was  the  answer,  "  don't  you  believe 
that  I  would  make  as  much  display  to  call  on  you,  as  I  would  to  be 
seen  by  thousands  ?  Your  eyes  are  worth  more  to  me,  than  all  of 
them  ;  for  I  know  you  love  the  beautiful ;  and  wliat  is  there,  that  I 
would  not  do  to  gratify  your,  taste  for  it  ?  But  I  don't  know  how  you 
can  stand  it  here,  for  it  would  kill  me."  And,  after  making  me  reiterate 
my  promise,  that  I  would  not  fail  to  procure  her  three  tickets  for  the 
opening  of  the  chambers,  she  enibraced  me  teaderly,  and  we  jjartod. 

As  I  turned  to  go  into  my  room,  I  could  hear  the  rain  pattering 
without,  and  the  wind  moaning  through  die  stone  corridors  of  the 
chateau.  My  retreat  never  api^.'ared  to  me  so  lugubriously  sad. 
The  blazing  fire  recalled  the  tab'eau,  I  had  witnessed  but  a  few 
moments  before,  when  I  had  seen  my  friend  and  her  husband  drink- 
ing happiness  in  each  other's  eyes. 

Envy,  jealousy,  anger,  hate,  and  sorrow  raged  in  my  heart.  Tlie 
jStorm  without  but  too  faithfully  reflected  the  troubled  state  of  my 
mind ;  and,  as  I  looked  and  listened,  the  fiame  sad  feeling  as  before 
came  over  me  again.  I  uttered  a  shriek  to  relieve  my  heart ;  and 
the  shriek  resounded  through  the  whole  chateau.  My  maid  had  gone 
to  i)ass  the  day  in  Paris  :  no  one  was  near  to  hear  my  wail,  which 
made  the  loneliness  seem  more  ghastly. 

I  flew  to  my  writing-desk,  and  began  to  write;  but  my  fingers 
pained  me,  and  it  was  an  eftbrt  for  me  to  hold  the  i)en,  1  looked  ■'*■ 
my  fingers  and  saw  diat  they  were  swollen — the  result  of  having 
pufled  with  such  force  on  the  strings  of  the  harp — when  they  snapped; 
a  thing  that  I  heeded  not  at  the  lime. 


FLYING  IN  THE  FACE  OF   GOD. 


229 


But  I  soon  became  so  furious,  that  I  did  not  mind  the  pain,  but 
kept  on  writing  at  a  rate  which  tried  to  keej)  i)ac(.'  with  my  thoughts. 
I'-very  other  sentence  was  something  to  this  effect  :  "  How  I  hate 
that  woman  !  not  because  she  is  selfish  ;  not  because  she  is  ungrate- 
ful ;  not  because  she  delights  ;.  ■  torment  me  ; — I  forgive  her  all  that ; 
btitslic  has  actually  iiuvricd the  man  she  loves!  she  loves  her  husband  : 
— forgive  her  for  that?  never  !  "  It  was  the  only  bliss  on  earth,  that  I 
coveted  ;  and  to  think,  tiiat  that  Avoman  should  possess  such  an  ad- 
vantage over  me."  "Talk  about  God  being  just,"  I  said,  "there  is 
a  specimen  of  His  justice  in  that  miserably  selfish,  cold-hearted, 
ambitious,  ungrateful,  intriguing,  envious  woman  being  able  to  marry 
the  very  man  she  hap[)cned  to  fall  in  love  with  ! " 

And  I  had  the  effrontery  to  declare,  that  I  was  her  opposite,  and 
that  God  had  refused  to  a  deserving  child,  what  He  readily  granted  to 
one  of  the  most  odious  women,  that  ever  were  born.  1  had  supposed 
that  she  married  so  as  to  have  some  one  to  pay  her  debts.  I  never 
susi)ected  for  a  moment,  that  she  was  in  love  widi  the  man. 

1  liad  never  envied  her,  but  now  I  envied  and  hated  her  ;  and  I 
took  my  revenge  by  writing  to  Laferriere  to  erase  her  name  from  the 
list,  and  to  see,  tliat  her  form  never  darkened  that  palace  again. 

I  related  to  him  all  that  had  passed  ;  how  she  had  torn  my  heart 
by  pretending,  tliat  she  had  seen  him  pass  a  whole  evening  admiring 
a  blonde;  but  what  1  dwelt  uj)on  most  was  the  scene  before  the  fire, 
which  so  exasperated  me,  that  I  had  nearly  dislocated  my  finger- 
joints,  by  wrenching  the  strings  Oi  the  harp;  altogether  I  was  the 
most  miserable  being  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

I  then  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sham,  that  I  had  just  penned  a  letter  to  La- 
ferriere, expressing  her  wislies  ;  but  it  was  useless  for  me  to  press  him 
to  oblige  her,  for,  the  moment  he  knew  her  desires,  he  would  con- 
sider them  as  sacred  as  his  sovereign's  commands.  Hoping  that  she 
would  enjoy  herself,  and  that  she  would  not  fail  to  conunand  me, 
whenever  she  thought  it  was  in  my  power  to  serve  her,  I  remained, 
as  ever,  her  most  truly  devoted,  etc. 

I  knew,  tliat  it  wouUl  make  her  furiously  angry,  if  I  threw  all  the 
blame  on  Lafeniore. 

The  Viscount  answered,  that,  if  Mrs.  Sham  was  ha]i])ily  married,  I 
ought  to  rejoice,  instead  of  letting  another  person's  health  be  the  sick- 
ness of  my  soul. 


230 


THE   POWER   OF  PRIDE. 


CHAPTER  T.. 

A  PKAL  OF  LAUGHTER  SOUNDS  IHP:  RESURRKCTION  NOTE  OF  A  SOUL 

LONG  DEAD  IN  SIN. 

The  peace  and  solitude  of  the  convent  ill  assorted  with  the  tm-bu- 
Icnt  i)assici.s  which  raged  in  my  breast.  1  felt  as  though  I  were  in 
a  prison,  and  every  time  I  would  go  by  myself  to  the  toj)  of  the  mound 
it  re([uired  the  strongest  effort  of  my  will  to  resist  leaping  over  the 
Avail  and  running  back  to  Paris.  It  was  my  pride  alone  that  pre- 
vented me ;  for  1  had  told  everybody  tliat  I  would  remain,  and  1  had 
already  received  the  congratulations  of  my  true  friends,  and  the  con- 
dolence of  those  who  cared  notliing  for  me.  If  I  returned  1  was  afraid 
that  every  one  would  suspect,  that  my  weakness  for  Laferriere  was 
tlie  real  cause  of  my  giving  up  the  world,  and  1  was  afraid  of  beirig 
laughed  at.  1  knew  that  my  reign  was  forever  over,  if  1  once  fell 
under  tlie  ban  of  ridicule. 

I  saw  no  alternative  but  to  remain. 

I  then  learned  how  envy,  jealousy,  and  hate,  can  goad  a  mind  on 
to  connnit  the  foulest  crimes.  At  night,  when  all  around  me  was  as 
breathless  as  the  tomb,  the  solitude  and  stillness  would  seem  appalling, 
and  the  conjurings  of  my  Ijrain  would  make  me  desperate.  I  would 
imagine  that,  wliile  1  kiy  <:ounting  the  long  weary  hours,  Laferriere  was 
chasing  away  the  ciniu't^  wliich  my  absence  caused  him,  by  the  side  of 
some  coquettish  n'cbiitanti',  and,  in  such  moments,  L  felt  as  though  1 
could  have  killed  them  both.  My  heart  would  beat  so  wildly,  that 
1  would  almost  tear  the  ilesh  from  my  side  trying  to  seize  it  in  order 
to  (juiel  its  throbbing.  It  was  so  full  of  ])ain  and  anguish  that 
it  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  break. 

Sunday  came.  It  was  a  bright,  genial,  autumn  day.  I  was  sur- 
])rised  that  1  had  not  heard  from  my  friend,  Mrs.  Sham — and  I  was 
expecting  her  every  moment.  I  passed  the  morning  trying  to  devise 
some  plan  to  crush  her  by  a  single  word,  and  I  was  longing  for  her  to 
come  to  give  me  the  chance  to  do  it ;  for  I  was  fully  determined  that 
.she  should  go  away  as  wretched  as  she  had  left  me  the  Sunday  before. 
'J'welve  o'clock  came,  and  yet  she  had  not  arrived.     As  I  impatiently 


nuns'  laughter. 


•,  OF  A  SOUL 


awaited  her  I  tried  to  kill  time  by  thinking  over  the  past.  But  this 
(lay  1  was  incapable  of  retlection.  My  bosom  was  so  tilled  with  liery 
l)assions  that  they  silenced  reason  ;  and  1  was  ready  to  coniniit  any 
deed  just  to  giatify  them.  My  heart  pained  me  incessantly.  I  could 
not  drive  the  disappointment  of  my  marriage  from  my  mind,  and  I 
seemed  to  feel  it  that  day  keener  than  ever. 

The  convent  clock  struck  one. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  1  heard  the  garden  door  slam  heavily 
t(j.  I  was  sure  that  my  friends  had  arrived,  and  1  rushed  to  the  win- 
dow, lint  it  was  not  they.  It  was  some  religious  who  had  just  en- 
tered the  garden,  and  had  come  to  pass  their  recreation  there. 

I  left  the  window  disap[)ointed,  and  went  into  my  bedroom,  where 
the  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  walls  and  Hoor.  I  looked  for  a  second 
at  the  effects  of  the  sun's  rays  as  they  streamed  through  the  cedar  of 
Lebanon,  and  for  a  moment  1  forgot  all ;  but  my  frenzy  soon  returned, 
and  1  sank  back  into  a  chair,  almost  powerless  under  the  weight  of 
so  much  mental  agony.  I  remained  there,  sut^ering  as  I  had  never 
suffered  before,  until  a  peal  of  laughter  from  the  garden  awoke  me 
from  my  revery  of  hate,  and  touched  a  chord  in  my  heart  which  had 
never  before  vibrated.  1  sprang  instantly  to  my  feet,  looked  out  the 
window,  as  another  peal  of  laughter  still  merrier  than  the  first  greeted 
me,  and  saw  the  nuns,  who  had  just  entered  the  garden,  and  who  were 
standing  warming  themselves  in  the  sun  directly  under  my  window. 

Th-.'re  could  be  no  deception  in  such  laughter.  I  felt  that  it  rang 
from  their  hearts,  and  1  knew  that  they  must  be  happ)'.  I  was  just 
as  much  convinced  that  they  were  hajipy,  as  1  was  certain  that  1  was 
miserable,  and  I  cried  out :  "  O  Clod  !  what  is  there  in  the  love  of 
Jesus  Christ,  that  it  alone  can  give  such  joy  and  happiness,  and  can 
replace  all  things?  " 

1  threw  a  glance  over  my  beautiful  chamber,  and  compared  it  with 
the  gloomy  cells  of  the  religious.  Surrounded  as  1  was  by  every 
luxury,  1  was  wretched  :  they  were  happy.  There  was  no  denjing 
it  ;  that  peal  of  laughter  alone  s[)oke  volumes  to  me  of  the  true  bliss 
that  is  hidtlen  in  the  love  of  Jesus  Christ.  As  I  stood  there,  watch- 
ing them,  their  cheerful  voices,  their  hajipy  smiles,  and  the  bright 
sun>liine  seemed  to  shed  a  halo  around  them. 

1  looked  11])  to  the  heavens  and  asked  Cod  what  it  meant,  that  I 
alone  should  suffer  wliile  every  creature  that  surrounded  me,  and 
even  Nature  herself  seemed  to  rejoice  ? 


H 

1 

2 

'  ; 

ll 

lii 

?32 


A  PRAYER   REPEATED. 


''  '  r-  he  window  and  began  pacing  the  room,  and  my  eyes  fell  on 
th  "  !  ok  entitled  "Evidences  of  Christianity,"  that  Mr.  Charlier 
had  o-ven  n  •  -^ars  before.  I  took  it  up,  thinking  that  I  miglit  learn 
from  it  the  sou.ce  from  which  the  nuns  drew  their  happiness.  I 
opened  the  book  at  random,  and  read  an  account  of  the  conversion 
of  St.  Paul.  This  miraculous  conversion,  the  writer  maintained,  was 
a  sufficient  evidence  of  the  truth  of  Christianity.  I  was  unable  to  re- 
fute him  and  thought  to  myself  :  "  How  well  the  fellow  defends  his 
case  ! "  I  tried  to  defend  my  own  convictions  against  his  assertions, 
but,  being  unable  to  do  so,  I  grew  impatient,  threw  the  book  on  the 
table  saying :  "  I  know  it  is  a  lie." 

The  argument  was  a  forcible  one.  It  had  seized  hold  of  my  mind, 
and  I  coidd  not  drive  it  away.  Again  I  took  up  the  book,  andagnin 
I  opened  it  where  it  spoke  of  the  conversion  of  St.  Paul ;  and  I  read 
how,  from  a  persecutor,  he  became  an  apostle.  That  i)leased  nie, 
and  I  knelt  down  and  began  to  pray.  Said  1 :  "  Lord  relieve  my 
heart  of  this  pain  :  if  Thou  wilt  take  it  from  my  heart,  I  will  believe 
that  Jesus  is  Thy  Son."  I  prayed  fervently  and  hopefully;  but  I  did 
not  obtain  relief.  I  recommenced  reading  the  same  cha[>ter.  In  a 
few  minutes  1  knelt  down  again,  and  prayed  more  earnestly  tlian  I 
did  before,  making  the  same  recjuest ;  but  the  pain  did  not  cease. 
Up  to  this  time,  my  thoughts  were  divided  between  the  book  and  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Sham,  whom  I  ex|)ected  every  moment.  After  I  had 
prayed  the  second  time,  without  obtaining  relief,  1  took  uj)  the  bottk 
and  recommenced  what  I  had  already  read.  At  last  1  threw  the 
book  across  the  floor.  My  thought  was,  when  I  made  that  impetuous 
movement,  that  God  must  answer  my  prayer  this  time,  or  the  whole 
thing  was  a  lie,  and  I  would  never  look  into  the  book  again. 

1  knelt  down  the  third  time  and  implored  Cod  to  take  away  the 
pain  from  my  heart,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  made  this  time  the  request, 
I  promised  Him  that  if  He  would  relieve  my  heart  I  would  be  gootl. 

I  wrestled  for  several  moments  with  all  the  powers  of  my  soul, 
and,  after  firmly  re.'^uivmg,  if  Cod  would  only  answer  my  prayer,  to 
lead  henceforth  an  irreproachable  life,  I  uttered  a  shriek,  which 
seemed  to  rend  me  through  and  through,  as  I  cried  out  :  "  If  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  is  the  Son  of  Cod,  and  is  as  powerful  as  Cod,  let  Him 
remove  this  pain  from  my  heart :  then  I  will  believe  in  Him,  and 
will  ever  adore  Him."  • 

As  I  pronounced  those  words,  a  moral  light  seemed  to  ihamine 


THE    PRAYER    GRANTED. 


233 


my  soul ;  and  it  brought  to  nic  a  conviction  that  Jesus  Christ  was 
Clod, — just  the  same  as  tliat  peal  of  laughter,  which  had  thrilled  me 
but  an  hour  before,  told  me  that  the  nuns  were  Iiappy.  But  this 
answer  to  my  prayer  was  still  more  vivid  and  impre  .ve,  so  much  so 
that,  for  a  moment,  1  was  bewildered.  As  soon  as  ^  re.  llected  my- 
self, and  remembered  what  1  had  just  been  prayir  for.  1  rose  to  my 
feet,  but  instantly  sank  down  again  on  my  knees,  and  kissed  the  floor  ; 
for  my  heart  was  relieved,  and  my  bosom  was  filled  with  [)eace. 

My  first  reflection  was  that,  ever  since  my  husband  had  made  me 
an  Infidel,  I  had  been  deluded  by  a  lie.  I  <■  npared  at  once  my 
present  buoyant  feelings  with  that  light  which  1  had  distinctly  felt  go 
out  of  me  the  instant  1  consented  to  disbelieve,  and  I  felt  that  it  had 
just  come  back  again.  And  as  I  stood  there,  trying  to  recall  the 
past,  and  how  dark  everything  had  seemed  to  me  since  that  time 
when  I  ceased  to  ask  forgiveness  in  the  name  of  Jesus,  1  began  to  feel 
the  same  glow  around  my  heart  as  I  had  felt  in  my  uncle's  cottage 
when  as  a  child  I  used  to  read  the  IJible  ;  and  which  I  had  also  felt 
for  an  instant,  while  1  was  ])raying,  the  night  that  ATr.  Dayton  died. 

All  these  dioughts  and  recollections  crowded  upon  me  cpiicker 
than  I  have  been  able  to  relate  them. 

I  ran  out  of  the  chateau  and  met  the  Rev'd  Mother.  1  threw  my 
arms  around  her  and  was  so  overcome  that  I  could  hardly  speak. 
At  last  1  said,  "Oh,  good  Mother,  you  don't  know  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me."  "  Si)eak,  my  child,"  said  she  ;  "  I  feel  that  you  are  no 
longer  happy  here,  and  that  you  are  going  to  leave  us." 

"Never,  good  mother,"  I  replied;  and  I  related  to  her  all  that  I 
had  suffeied,  and  what  had  just  happened  to  me  in  answer  to  my 
prayer.  The  Rev'd  Mother  observed  :  "  All  this,  my  child,  is  the  grace 
of  Ciod."  "  What,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  this  the  grace  of  C.od  ?  If  this 
is  the  grace  of  Clod,  I  want  more  of  it.  Tell  me,  good  mother,  how  I 
shall  get  it." 

"Pray,  my  child,  always  pray  as  earn-stly  as  you  did  then,  and 
God  will  not  fail  to  grant  you  all  the  grace  you  need."  "  Oh,  if  it  only 
requires  prayer,  good  mother,  I  am  willing  to  pray  all  the  time." 

1  was  so  afraid  that  the  ])ain  around  my  heart  would  come  back 
again,  that  I  instantly  left  the  Rev'd  Mother,  and  entered  the  chs'iteau 
and  recommenced  i)raying.  But  my  heart  and  mind  remained  as 
calm  and  as  peaceful,  as  though  the  storms  of  passion  had  never 
swept  over  them. 


234 


PrwVYER,   WITH    A    "DISTRACTION. 


In  the  evening,  I  wrote  to  Laferriere.  1  did  not  expliiin  to  him  the 
great  change  which  had  taken  place  in  nie  :  1  merely  told  iiini  that  1 
had  forgiven  Mrs.  S/tt7;.>/,  and  that  he  would  please  me  by  doing  any. 
thing  he  could  to  oblige  her. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

"  DIAMOND    CUT   DIAMOND." 

I  FOLLOWED  the  Rev.  Mother's  advice,  and  ])rayed  continnally. 
Whenever  1  felt  a  sentiment  of  envy,  jealousy,  or  iiate,  1  would 
instantly  resort  to  jirayer,  and  continue  to  i)ray  until  1  felt  that  love 
and  charity  had  taken  their  place.  Prayer  became  to  me  like  an  invin- 
cible instrument  of  defence  against  any  evil  passion  that  rose  in  my 
breast.  I  would  resort  to  it,  just  as  a  man  seizes  hold  of  a  weapon 
to  defend  himself  from  a  blow. 

The  aching  pain  around  my  heart  returned ;  but,  l)y  prayer,  I 
could  assuage  it.  Whenever  I  thought  of  Jiaferriere,  1  felt  it  acutely. 
I  was  always  trying  tD  drive  him  from  my  mind  ;  but  his  image  con- 
stantly intruded  itself  upon  me.  Even  in  my  prayers,  he  would  come 
up  before  me  like  a  l)y  gone  sorrow,  or  a  future  ho|)e. 

My  fust  a[)i)eal  to  (lod  usually  was:  "Lord,  take  the  memory  of 
him  from  my  heart." 

I  .soon  discovered  that  my  success  did  not  depend  on  the  length 
of  my  jnayer,  nor  on  my  words  or  my  cry — it  depended  more  on  a 
secret  movement  in  the  interior  of  my  heart,  which  was  product'd 
from  my  faith  in  God  and  by  an  act  of  my  own  will ;  and  I  1ki  ve  sonic- 
times  felt  that  my  prayer  was  answered  before  I  knelt  down — but  this 
was  rare ;  for  the  effort  it  requires  on  the  ]iart  of  the  will,  to  produce 
this  effect  in  the  interior  portion  of  the  hecTi't,  is  almost  a  superhuman 
one,  and  it  requires  the  strongest  ojjposition  to  our  own  natural  in- 
clination ;  and  even  then  we  can  do  nothing  unless  assisted  by  di- 
vine grace  ;  which  I  was  not  aware  of  then  ;  for  [  su[>i)osed  I  did  it  all 
myself  by  the  force  of  my  own  will. 

From  the  day  I  had  experienced  my  change  of  heart,  I  had  been 
hourly  expecting  a  call  from  Mrs.  S/iain  ;  but  she  never  came.  I 
feared  that  she  was  angry  with  me  :  so  I  decided  to  call  on  her. 


A   WIFES   PHILOSOPHY. 


235 


J  would  come 


c  meniorv  of 


I  found  lier  by  herself,  and  low-spirited,  and  my  presence  alone 
seemed  to  put  her  in  a  worse  humor.  I  remarked  at  once  her  de- 
jected mien,  and  told  her  tliat  1  was  not  prepared  to  be  met  with  a 
frown,  for  1  exjiected  to  find  her  happy. 

"Happy!"  she  exclaimed,  '■^  qiiaiid  jc  m^enmiic?  Ah  !  (jiic  jc 
vtcnituic!  Iia[)py  !  wlien  I  am  wearied  to  death!"  "What?" 
said  I,  "it  is  hardly  fair  that  you  should  sufior  with  cniiuic  during  the 
Jione\-moon.  There  will  be  time  enou[di  for  that  during  the  other 
moons, — what  is  the  name  tiie  l-'rench  have  for  them  ? — Ics  liiiu's 
ifii/isiiitlii'  {\.\\c  wormwood  moons).  I  suppose  jv//  do  not  believe  in 
them,  as  they  have  not  risen  for  you  yet." 

"  liushi,"  she  replied,  "this  nonsense.  Why  have  }'0u  prevented 
T-aiijrriere  sending  me  boxes?  A/i,  que  jc  iii  eniitiic  !"  "  lJ|)on  my 
honor,"  said  1,  "  1  even  imphired  Laferriere  to  do  so  ;  but  he  will  not. 
Yon  talk  about  being  wearied?  Why,  I  actually  thought  that  you 
were  in  love  with  your  husband." 

"  Jn  love  with  hini !"  she  exclaimed  :  "do  you  take  me  for  a  l)ig- 
ger  fool  than  yourself,  to  fall  in  love  with  any  man.  I  would  like  to 
know  how  you  would  expect  me  to  maua^^e  him  if  1  did."  "Well," 
said  I,  "i  was  sure  that  you  were  in  love  with  him;  how  you  looketl 
at  each  other,  and  how  }()u  dallietl  with  him  when  you  were  on  the 
rug  before  the  fue  in  my  room."  "  (^  inon  Dicu  .'"  said  she,  "that 
was  all  ////  on."  "  Wiiat,"  I  exclaimed  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
that  was  all  a  farce  ?  " 

She  burst  out  laughing,  and  J  laughed  too  as  I  thought  to  myself, 
"'I'he  rogue,  the  rogue,  how  she  fooled  me  !  and  how  1  hurt  my  hand 
for  nothing." 

"  ^V'!ly,"  she  asked,  "did  you  suppose  that  I  could  ever  fall  in  love 
with  such  an  old  man  ?  Now  y  m  know  how  it  is  yourself:  these  old 
fellows  arc  sc/isiti'oissiiiii.  If  you  don't  happen  to  respond  to  all  their 
tenderness,  they  imagine  at  once  that  you  are  tired  of  them,  and  then 
you'll  have  a  i)retty  time,  if  they  once  get  that  into  their  heads  :  for 
they  are  sure  to  cage  you  uj)  like  a  bird." 

"  )Vhy,"  said  I,  "  I  did  not  sui)pose  that  your  husl)and  was  much 
|)kler  than  yourself:  he  doesn't  look  so." 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  without  wishing  to  tell  you  my  age  (yet  1  don't 
rare  what  age  you  take  me  for),  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence  :  he  is 
more  than  twenty  years  older  than  I  am."  Said  I  :  "  The  old  deceiver  ! 
].)oes  he  dye  ?  "     "  Ah,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh,  "  he  will  never  die  !  but 


236 


MARRIKD    liLISS. 


you  hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  ask  nic  any  (jucstions.  I  manage 
him  just  as  you  do  Lafcnicio.  lUit  how  you  fooled  me!  I  used  to 
think  you  were  dead  in  love  with  h:i>i.  1  can  now  understand  how 
you  can  innnuie  your.sylf,  tor  I  feel  sometimes  like  doing  it  myself. 
I  get  so  tired  of  hearing  his  insi])id  endearments ;  and  I  am  weary 
to  death  of  his  attentions  and  caresses  :  yUi,  que  Je  m'ciiiii/ic .'" 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  I,  "  if  that  is  the  way  you  i)ass  your  time  ; 
foi-  toiijours  (ill  plaislr  tC  est  point  dii  p/aisir,  (Pleasure  all  the  time  is 
no  pleasure.)  Hut  when  are  you  coming  up  to  see  me  ?"  She  did 
not  reply,  and  I  repeated  my  (question,  and,  as  she  hesitated,  1  said 
to  her  : 

"I  don't  suppose  I -shall  see  you  any  more,  now  diat  I  cannot 
prevail  on  Laferriere  to  jiatronize  you."  "Ah,"  she  (]uickly  replied, 
"///(?/  is  not  it."     "So,"  said  I,  "  then  there  is  a  reason  ?" 

She  did  not  deny  it,  and  I  urged  her  until  she  intimated  that  her 
husband  was  displeased  with  me,  and  had  refused  to  drive  her  out  to 
see  me. 

She  then  began  to  scold  mc.  Said  she  :  "Why  did  you  go  on  that 
way  before  him,  and  show  out  just  what  you  are  ?  You  might  have 
known  the  effect  it  woidd  have  upon  him.  That  is  the  way  you 
create  so  much  opposition  ;  you  are  always  throwing  yourself  open 
to  criticism.  You  cannot  imagine  the  bad  impression  you  made  on 
him." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "1  suppose  he  is  afraid  to  have  you  associate 
with  me,  for  fear  I  might  corrupt  your  morals  ?  "  She  seriously  as- 
sented by  a  nod  of  the  head.  This  provoked  me  to  a  fit  of  laughter, 
which  made  her  look  into  my  face  inc^uiringly,  to  know  what  1  could 
find  to  laugh  at. 

Her  husband  made  his  appearance,  and  she  instantly  resmned  her 
mask— by  showering  upon  him  epithets  of  endearment,  and  treating 
me  with  a  cold,  haughty  reserve.  I  thought  that  the  comedy  had 
now  reached  a  pitch  where  my  part  was  the  mo_st  disagreeable  one  to 
play  :  so  1  took  leave,  without  either  of  Uiem  inviting  me  to  call 
again.  Since  that  day  1  have  been  slower  in  envying  other  people's 
happiness. 


A   MISSIONARY   BISHOP. 


237 


CHAPTER   Lir. 


A   MAN    OF   GOD. — THE    AUTHOR    OV    SPIRITUALISM. 


During  my  residence  at  St.  Maude  I  was  accustomed  to  attend 
Mass  regularly  every  Sunday.  Although  I  had  no  faith  in  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Real  Presence,  yet  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  ceremonial 
and  tile  ha])[)iness  and  peace  of  mind,  plainly  visible  on  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  nuns,  jjroduced  an  impression  on  my  mind,  and  be- 
got in  it  feelings  of  reverence  and  hope  and  a  hitherto  unknown 
confidence  in  the  goodness  of  God.  One  Sunday  Mass  \.'as  celebrated 
by  a  strange  ])riest. 

He  was  a  tall  old  man,  who  looked  worn  out  with  age  and  hard 
labor.  The  expression  of  his  face  inspired  veneration,  while  his 
whole  attitude  bespoke  the  most  perfect  humility. 

After  Mass  Madam  Xavier  and  1  took  a  stroll  in  the  park  of  Vin- 
cennes.  On  entering  the  convent  garden,  wiiich  joined  on  the  i)ark, 
we  met  the  Lady  Superior,  who  introduced  me  to  Bishop  Semeria,  the 
venerable  celebrant  of  the  morning  Mass.  He  was  an  Italian,  wlio 
had  resided  for  many  years  in  the  Indies  as  a  missionary.  He  was 
the  Bishop  of  01ymi)ia,  Wcciv  Apostolic  of  Jaffna  in  Ceylon,  and  was 
a  m-'Miber  of  the  Society  of  Oblate  Fathers. 

After  the  Rev.  Superior  introduced  us,  we  exchanged  a  few  words 
and  th'  n  parted,  never  expecting  to  see  each  other  again. 

The  next  morning,  I  told  the  Rev.  Mother  that  I  would  like  to 
talk  on  religion  w'th  Monseigneur.  She  consented  reluctantly,  as 
she  told  me  she  was  sure  that,  in  all  his  travels,  the  Bishop  had  never 
met  with  such  a  character  as  I  was.  She  was  certain  that  neither  of 
us  would  be  gratified.  "  You  remarked,"  she  said,  "  his  humble  bear- 
ing ;  but  you  did  not  perceive  tliose  piercing  eyes,  so  deeply  hidden 
in  their  sockets."  "Excuse  me,"  said  I,  "I  did  notice  them  i)er- 
fcctly,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  them.  I  am  in  search  of  truth,  and  I 
know  very  well  that  a  man  with  such  a  bearing,  and  with  two  such 
eyes  in  his  head,  is  neither  a  fool  nor  a  h'pocrite.  1  want  some  one 
strong  enough  to  master  me.  I  cannot  talk  to  the  nuns ;  for  I  think 
it  would  be  wrong  to  repel  their  instructions  by  using  my  infidel  bat- 
teries.    But  that  man  can  defend  himself,  which  I  am  not  so  sure 


i 


i'l  i    l'-: 


!t 


:>    i 


fl 


i 


^ 


< , 


238 


A   GOOD   LISTENER. 


that  any  one  of  your  religious  could,  if  I  set  myself  zealously  to  work 
to  attack  them.  The  truth  is,  I  want  to  be  convinced,  but  1  don't 
think  it  is  possible  to  convince  me  ;  and  I  cannot  be  convinced  with- 
out telling  my  reasons  for  disbelieving,  wliich  I  will  not  tell  you  or 
any  of  the  religious."  "  1  resjject  you  the  more  for  it,"  she  answeri;d  ; 
"for,  although  we  all  believe  ourselves  invulnerable  and  inaccessible 
to  a  doubt,  I  would  not  like  the  religious,  nor  would  I  wish  myself 
to  hear  the  pernicious  teachings  of  infidels,  the  sworn  enemies  of  out 
Lord.  You  are  right,  my  child,  never  to  let  us  hear  them;  for  like 
l)oisoned  arrows  they  are  dangerous  even  to  play  with. 

"  I  will  make  known  your  wishes  to  ,\ronseigneur  Semeria.  If  he 
will  consent  to  give  )()u  religious  instructions,  you  nuist  consitler  it  a 
very  great  favor,  because  his  health  is  feeble,  and  his  mind  and  body 
reijuire  repose." 

'I'he  following  day  the  Superior  brought  the  bishop  to  the  ch.ateau. 
The  moment  he  entered  the  room  I  lelt  the  ascendency  of  a  lofly  and 
cultivated  intellect,  temi)ered  by  an  hiunble  but  impassioned  soul. 

His  manners  were  grave  but  perfectly  sim[)le,  divested  alike  of 
familiarity  or  reserve. 

We  had  hardly  sat  down  and  0[)ened  the  conversation,  before  t  be- 
came embai lassed  ;  for  he  was  a  i^iU't/  lish'/wr,  the  first  (jue  1  had  met 
on  the  continent.  I  lis  silence  at  last  l;ecame  so  provokiin',lv  annoy- 
ing, iha!  1  stop[)ed  sudd'.'iily  short  and  begged  him  to  s|)eak.  "  .\o." 
said  he  \ei\-  gently  :  ''  I  have  come  here  lo  try  to  convert  you,  }ou 
are  not  going  to  convert  me."  "  Hut,  W(W  nieii .'  Aloiiseigneur,"  lev- 
claimed,  "how  do  you  ex[)ect  to  convert  me,  unless  you  speak  lo 
me?"  "(leiitly,  gently,  my  child,"  he  rei)lied,  "before  1  try  to  sow 
any  seed,  I  want  you  to  permit  me  to  examine  the  soil."  He  begged 
me  to  continue.  I  said  that  1  would  i;i\-e  worlds  to  believe  thai  ihe 
Roman  Catholic  religion  was  true,  but  1  knew  that  I  never  could  lu.-- 
lieve  it,  because  it  was  so  contrary  to  reason  and  common  sense. 
"Please,"  said  he,  "tell  me  what  you  know  about  the  Catholic  re- 
ligion." Said  I,  "  I  know  nothing  in  its  favor;  but  \  know  cver\  thing 
against  it."      "Von  are  like  llie  majori'y  of  mankind,"  he  replied. 

I  then  (luoted  passages  from  \'oll;'j're  and  Rousseau,  aiul.  io  mv 
sur[)rise,  he  did  iiot  allempt  to  refute  ihem.  I  tried  todrawlum  into 
an  argument;  but  he  persislenlly  avoided  it.  After  I  haddweh  on 
the  writings  of  \'oltaire,  and  the  sa)iiigs  of  ]c\w  j-acqiies,  he  cast  upon 
liie  a  very  significant  glance,  and  mildly  asked  me  how  1  adiuired  the 


MY   IDOLS    UPSET, 


219 


3usly  to  work 
i,  but  1  don't 
nvinced  wiih- 
)t  tell  you  or 
lie  answered  ; 
i  inaccessible 
^  wish  niyself 
emies  of  our 
leni  ;  for  like 


the  chateau, 
jf  a  lofty  and 
nied  soul, 
ted  alike  of 


lives  of  these  two  men,  and  if  I  were  a  man,  would  I  like  to  live  and 
die  as  they  had  lived  and  died,  and  as  a  woman,  if  I  would  like  to  have 
had  Voltaire  for  my  husband,  or  Rousseau  for  my  flither.  I  rellected 
for  a  ipoment,  when  mv  admiration  for  my  two  favorite  philosophers 
was  instantly  changed  into  horror,  and  I  wondered  that  the  facts  had 
never  struck  me  before,  "  Afonseigneur,"  I  exclaimed,  "  don't  let 
us  speak  of  them  any  more  ;  for  I  am  one  of  the  most  jealous  women 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  Voltaire  would  have  driven  me  mad. 
Wh}',  he  used  to  change  his  ladyloves  as  often  as  he  did  his  reli|. 


ion. 


ura 


The    Bishop  was  unprepared  for  this  outburst,  and,  in  si)ite  of  his 
vitv,  he  smiled.      "Rousseau,"   said   I,   "the   heartless   monster! 


the  brute  !     Why  he  ])ut  his  five  children  into  the   Koundling  Asylum 
as  soon  as  they  were  born,  and  that  was  the   last  he  ever   heard  of 


th 


em. 


This  fact,  for  the  first  tii 


ne, 


■;truck  a  sensitive  chord  in  n 


heart,  and    I   buried   my  face   in  my  hands  to  conceal 
as  I  thought  of  all  that  I  had    suhered  for   ha\in 


iy 


mv  emotions, 


been   called   an 


itleiritimate  child.      1  thoudit  of  the  miserable  existence  of  these  five 
cent  bcinys,  born  under  the   ban  of  sociea',  and  under  the  dis- 


iniio 


■6-'' 


ace  which  is   naturally  attached    to   the  viola! 


ion   oi 


ler 


aws,  re- 


maiuin 


g   all  their  lives  with  the  stigma  of  such   an  origin,  wanilerinj 


and  |)roscribe(l,  to   languish   in   humiliation   and  vice.     Said   1  :   "  I 
hate  Rousseau  this  moment  more  than  you  can  e\er  know." 
"If  you  can  hate  both  these  men,  then  you  have  suftered." 
'■^  SitJj'criJ  y    I   repeated   after    him:    "[  have    been   bred   upon 
suffering.      1  have  hardlv  ever  known  anvthinii-  else  ;  and  this  moment 
1  would  sooner  die,  than  to  have  such  a  husband  as  N'ollaire  or  such 


fath 


er  as 


Rou 


sseau. 


You  are   ri^ht,"  said   the    1 


)1S|101) 


It 


iS 


)d  fruit,  as  it  is  for 


]ust  as  uni)i>ssii)le  lor  a  bad  tree  to  iiroduce  goo 
bad  man  to  wiite  good  wcnks.  These  two  writers  are  the  most  to  be 
dreaded  aiul  feared,  because  they  are  witty  and  subtle.  Their  st\le 
is  brilliant  and  fascinating,  and  without  the  assistance  of  supernatural 
light,  they  would  seduce  the  saints  themselves  ;  but  it  has  oiilv  been 
the  p;()ud  that  tlu-ir  works  have  exer  corrupted,  for  (iod  alwa)S  has 
a  watchful  eye  over  the  liiunlile,  and  he  will  not  pt-rmit  them  to  bo 
led  astray.  There  is  luielon,  why  have  you  not  read  his  works?" 
"Oh!"  said  I,  "  1  know  them  by  heart,  and  I  love  leiielon  ;  but  I 
have  often  wondereil  lu)w  such  an  intelligent  man  could  have  been  a 
Catholic."  "  It  was  just  because  he  was  intelligent,"  said  the  I'.ishop, 
"and  his  intellect   was  guitlcd  by   |)roiound  wisdom,  that    he  was 


:i 


1 

,'        1 

II 

■V      ' 

?l 

240 


A   SHORT   BIOGRAPHY   OF  SATAN. 


*  ! 


m^ 


one."  I  then  asked  him  how  was  it  possible  to  disbelieve  Renan  ? 
"The  only  time,"  said  I,  "I  ever  wept  over  the  sufferings  of  Jesus 
was  when  I  read  Renan's  life  of  Him."  "Renan,"  said  he,  "has 
made  a  simple  mockery  of  Christ,  for  sensitive  women  to  weep  over. 
It  requires  very  little  intelligence  to  see  how  this  pantheistic  novel- 
ist, by  his  sentimental  phrases,  ridicules  Christ  and  everybody  else. 
-But,"  he  asked,  "  who  taught  you  to  understand  the  passion  of 
Christ?  "  "  I  tried  to  teach  myself,"  said  I,  "  and  I  never  was  moved 
half  so  much  by  reading  the  Testament  as  1  was  by  reading  Renan.'' 
"Well,"  he  replied,  "if  you  had  no  one  to  teach  you,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  you  did  not  understand  it,  and  were  not  moved  by  it.  If  1  re- 
main in  Paris  long  enough  I  will  devote  a  whole  day  to  reading  it 
and  explaining  it  to  you,  that  you  may  at  least  understand  thoroughly 
that  most  important  ]\art  in  the  ]ilan  of  ma.i's  redemi)ti(>n.  You  must 
not  expect  me  to  be  as  sentimental  as  Monsieur  Renan. 

"  If  J  teach  you  the  passion  of  Christ,  I  shall  teach  it  to  you  accord- 
ing to  the  Catholic  Church,  as  all  her  cnildren  jre  taught  to  under- 
stand the  arrest,  the  trial,  and  the  crucifixion  of  their  Saviour." 

"But,"  said  I,  "there  is  another  evidence  against  yonr  clnuch.  I 
have  known  tlie  s[nrits  themselves  to  declare  that  Catiu)licity  is  a 
lie.  1  believe  in  si)iritualism  ;  for  I  have  seen  it  tested,  and  I  know 
it  to  be  a  fact  tiiat  some  invisible  and  intelligent  agency  communicates 
with  the  visible  world."  Said  he:  "That  is  tiie  devil."  "Oh," 
said  I,  "  1  know  very  well  that  you  Catholics  try  to  put  the  thing 
down  by  calling  it  the  dcil ;  but  I  don't  believe  that  it  is  the  devIL" 
"Well,"  said  he,  "1  know  that  it  is  the  devil,  for  I  caught  him  at  it 
myself."  "  Wiiat,"  said  I,  "such  a  man  as  you  have  anything  to  do 
with  si)iritualism  ?"  "Why  not,"  he  answered,  "as  well  as  any  one 
else  ?  "  "  Because,"  said  I,  "  I  have  very  seldom  met  serious  minded 
men  at  these  circles."  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  have  ;  but  I  never  saw 
a  well-balanced  mind  whose  convictions  were  shaken  by  them.  I 
have  given  spiritualism  a  fair  test,  and  1  _,ronounce  it  nothing  more 
or  less  than  the  machinations  of  the  devil."  After  a  pause  he  con- 
tinued :  "You  have  lead  the  Life  of  Jesus,  by  Renan  ;  did  )ou  ever 
rea<l  the  life  of  Sat;i.n,  1)\-  J<"sus  ?"  "  No,"  I  answered,  and  I  looked 
at  him  to  see  if  he  was  serious.  "Well,"  said  he,  "  I  have.  1 1  is 
Very  short,  and  is  sununed  uj)  in  very  fe«\  ords  ;  for  Jesus  said  thnt 
the  devil  was  a  liar,  and  the  father  of  lies.  Now,  tell  me,  do  you 
believe  our  Lord  spoke  the  truth  when  He  called  the  devii  a  liar  ?  " 


THE  BISHOP   ON   SPIRITUALISM. 


241 


«  Ah  "  said  I,  "  everybody  knows  that  the  devil  was  a  liar  from  the 
be<Tinning."  "Yes,"  continued  the  Bishop:  "he  was  not  only  a 
liar  from  the  beginning,  but  he  is  now,  and  ever  will  be.  Knowing 
tlie  character  of  the  devil  so  well,  I  discovered  tliat  spiritualism  was 
one  of  his  powerful  agencies  in  this  century.  He  has  tried  it  before. 
Read  Josephus ;  (and  I  think  he  told  me  that  there  wer--  passages  in 
the  Bible  that  referred  to  these  manifestations).  He  has  tried  it  in 
different  ages  ;  but  he  never  succeeded  so  well  as  he  has  in  the  nine- 
teenth centurv,  for  the  reason  that  the  morality  of  the  masses  has  never 
reached  a  lower  ebb.  Satan  always  triumi)hs  on  the  ruins  of  morals. 
I  attended  frequent  st'aiict's,  and  I  discovered  that  the  spirits  would 
make  predictions  that  never  came  true  ;  that  what  one  circle  would 
affirm  another  circle  would  contradict ;  that  they  inculcated  the  disso- 
lubility of  the  marriage  vow,  free  love,  suicide,  repudiated  every  tie, 
both  social  and  divine,  and  attacked  the  very  fundamental  principles 
of  every  well-regulated  society.  They  called  our  Lord  a  liar,  for 
tliey  deny  His  divinity,  and  they  denounce  His  church.  Setting  aside 
our  Lord  and  His  church,  I  found  that  they  lied  about  trivial  things ; 
therefore  how  can  they  be  relied  upon  and  believed  in  preference  to 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  ?  ' 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  spiritualistic  manifestations  are  the 
work  of  some  supernatural  agency.  Now  the  only  supernatural  intel- 
ligences which  can  undei  stand  or  reply  to  questions  are  God  and 
His  angels,  and  Lucifer  and  his  imps  of  hell.  I  will  not  insult  your 
intelligence  by  su|)posing  for  a  moment,  that  an  infinitely  wise  and 
good  (lod  would  hold  himself  at  the  beck  and  bidding  of  every  me- 
dium, or  permit  His  angels  to  reveal  to  them  the  secrets  of  the  past 
or  the  mysteries  of  the  future.  The  only  supernatural  intelligence 
then  which  can  be  present  at  seances  and  make  dupes  of  the  pro- 
selytes of  spiritualism  is  'he  devil  or  some  of  his  demoniac  fellows. 
The  spirits  who  connnui  i  with  spiritualists  can  never  tell  the  truth 
except  to  serve  some  bad  end. 

"  Spiritualism  allures  men's  souls  to  destruction,  by  first  flattering 
their  sensuality  and  giving  free  scope  to  their  passions  and  ai)petites. 
At  times  it  assume^  the  garb  of  morality.  By  occasionally  retailing 
out  righteous  truths  and  .'ntimental  sayings,  it  leads  numberless  souls 
astray.  The  devil  fust  gains  men's  confidence,  the  same  as  he  did 
mother  Eve's,  and  then  their  fall  is  easy,  almost  certain.  How  can 
you,  an  api)arently  intelligent  woman,  risk  the  salvation  of  your  soul, 
II 


-^^^a^WV^' 


242 


SPIRITISM   AND   THE   CHURCH. 


by  pinning  your  faith  to  any  revelation  coming  from  a  source  which 
teaches  disunion,  discord,  disobedience  to  God's  laws,  which  is  in  con- 
stant contradiction  with  itself,  never  to  be  relied  upon,  which  has  never 
produced  any  good  result,  but  whose  adherents  become  morally  and 
physically  enervated  and  depraved  ?  Yet  how  many  there  are,  besides 
yourself,  who  would  sooner  go  to  seek  truth  and  light  in  such  a  maze 
of  contradictions,  than  in  Christ's  church,  where  alone  can  be 
tbund  that  universal  faith,  which  is  all  truth,  all  life,  all  light,  all 
union  !  This  church  was  given  to  us  by  God,  and  11  e  did  not  give 
it  to  us  to  deceive  us.  Its  divine  Founder  gave  it  v  doctrine  which 
gathers  together  in  one  common  fold,  and  in  a  most  admirable  union, 
all  souls  and  hearts,  who  adhere  to  its  creed,  adapted,  as  it  is,  to  all 
ages,  all  peoples,  and  all  degrees  of  civilization.  Yet  how  many  thou- 
sands of  souls  there  are  besides  yourself,  who  close  their  ear  to  its  teach- 
ings, while  they  are  willing  to  listen  with  attention  to  every  vain  sophis- 
try concocted  by  Satan  and  his  followers. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 


'Jim 


I 


MORAL    INDEPENDENCE, — PRACTICAL   ATHEISM. 

I  TOLD  the  Bishop  what  had  occu'-red  on  the  day  I  had  promised 
God  that  T  would  believe  that  Christ  was  I^is  Son,  if  he  would  take 
away  the  pain  from  my  heart,  the  extraordinary  light  which  I  had 
received,  and  how  changed  I  was  ;  for  I  went  at  once  and  confessed 
to  the  Rev.  Mother  faults  which  my  pride  would  not  have  permitted 
me  to  mention  a  few  moments  before. 

"The  grace  of  God,"  he  remarked,  "makes  us  humble  ;  it  is  only 
our  own  nature  and  the  devil  which  puffs  us  up  with  i)ride.  Ciod 
granted  you  an  extraordinary  grace,  my  child,  and  believe  me  that 
(Jod  alon'.  will  be  your  Master  :  for  your  mind  is  so  warped,  an  1  so 
distorted  by  bad  associations  and  bad  literature,  that  God  alone  will 
ever  b-  able  to  straighten  it.  It  would  take  a  skilful  i)sychologist  at 
least  ten  years  to  undo  your  bad  education  ;  and  I  have  not  the 
time,  for  I  must  attend  to  the  duties  which  brouglu  me  here." 

''  But,"  said  T.  "you  will  teach  me  somethings  will  you  not,  before 
you  go?" 

"  I  can  teach  you,"  he  observed,  "  but  I  never  could  convince  you 


>!2^^:-^^^ 


NO   MORALITY   WITHOUT   GOD. 


243 


cnvince  you 


of  anything,  unless  God  Himself  would  come  and  verify  it  for  me,  as 
He  did  when  He  gave  you  that  extraordinary  light." 

Said  I :  "  I  never  could  believe  tliat  it  was  necessary  for  a  person 
to  profess  any  religion  in  order  to  be  saved.  I  believe  in  moral  in- 
dependence, and  that  if  a  man  lives  up  to  the  dictates  of  his  con- 
science, he  is  just  as  pleasing  to  (lod  as  those,  wi;o  are  always  going 
to  church."  "Moral  independence,  my  child,"  rei)lied  the  Bishop, 
"is  notliing  more  or  less  than  practical  atheism."  Said  I:  "I  beg 
your  Lordship's  pardon,  but  that  is  not  true  ;  for  one  can  be  morally 
independent,  and  yet  believe  in  (iod."  "No,"  said  the  Bishop, 
"  those  who  call  themselves  moral  independents  make  use  of  God's 
name,  but  they  discard  God  entirely ;  for  they  chase  Him  from  their 
hearts,  they  try  to  drive  Him  from  their  consciences,  and  they  would 
exclude  Him  from  everything  and  put  themselves  in  His  place,  if 
they  could.  What  else  is  it  but  renouncing  God  to  declare  morality 
independent  of  Him?  For  by  separating  morality  from  God,  we 
separate  it  from  its  root,  which  is  God.  If  diere  is  a  God,  He  if 
our  Creator,  and  if  He  is  our  Creator,  He  is  our  Supreme  Legis- 
lator, and  if  He  is  our  Sujjreme  Legislator,  He  is  our  Sui)r.  ne 
Judge  :  God  is  that,  or  He  is  nothinc^  at  all. 

"After  )'ou  have  done  right,  where  do  you  find  your  sanction,  and 
where  do  you  seek  for  satisfaction  ?  "  Said  I  :  "  I  sc  k  it,  and  I  find 
it,  in  my  self-respect."  "Therefore,  you  make  your  own  self  your 
judge  and  your  God.  I  am  not  surprised,  for  in  doing  so,  you  are 
but  practising  the  teachings  of  one  of  your  favorite  masters,  \[ons. 
Kenan,  who,  after  denying  the  Divine  Son — w;  soon  obliged  to  set 
aside  God  .the  Father  ;  for  he  says  that  he  does  not  Ix-lieve  that 
there  is  in  the  universe  a  superior  intelligence  to  man.  liut  one  of 
his  collaborators,  who  was  not  (piite  as  (w  advanced  as  himself,  was 
slightly  scandalized  by  such  an  assertion,  and  he  answered  him,  '  My 
dear  frien<l,  we  ought  to  call  things  by  iheir  name.  If  there  is  no 
being  in  the  universe  superior  to  man,  there  is  no  God, — I  mean 
there  is  /la  other  G^^?^/ besides  man.'  There  is  jus'  vhere  your  moral 
independent  system  leads  to,  and  I  now  reprat  that  no  one  can  be 
morally  independent  without  being  a  practical  atheist."  Said  1  ;  "  I 
aave  met  many  men  who  did  not  profess  any  religion,  and  I  have 
found  them  more  honorable  and  virtuous  than  1  have  half  of  the  men 
I  know  who  wore  canting  scri|)ture  to  inc  from  morning  until  night." 
"  Well,"  said  he,  "  when  you  meet  any  more  of  these  upright  men, 


T, 


■^ 


"  f 


244 


MORAL   OBLIGATION. 


without  Faith,  and  without  Hope,  say  to  yourself  that  these  men  are 
better  than  their  principles ;  and  when  you  meet  bad  men  who  pro- 
fess to  be  Christians,  believe  me  that  their  principles  are  better 
than  they  are.  Christ  commanded  us  to  profess  His  Holy  Name, 
and  what  Christ  commanded  us  to  do  is  what  (]od  conunands  us. 
The  Christian  religion  is  not  a  mere  matter  of  opinion.  Religion 
commands  ;  u  obliges  man  ;  and  that  man  who  recognizes  no  higher 
law  than  that  which  he  finds  within  himself,  what  guarantee  have  you 
that,  when  he  is  tempted,  he  will  not  fall  ?  Remember,  I  am  com- 
paring the  moral  practical  atheist  with  the  practical  Christian."  Said 
I  :  "  I  would  trust  one  as  far  as  I  would  the  other." 

"I  would  not,"  answered  the  Bishop,  "and  my  long  experience 
has  often  proved  to  me  that  1  am  rigiit ;  for  the  Christian  carries 
within  his  soul  a  law  which  God  has  i)laced  there,  and  he  recognizes 
its  author,  and  does  not  pretend  that  that  law  is  independent  of  Cod. 
The  moral  independent,  on  the  contrary,  who  recognizes  no  higher 
law  than  his  own  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  seeks  no  higiier  satis- 
faciion  than  his  own  self-respect,  what  has  he  to  protect  him  against 
the  two  great  enemies  of  all  morality,  our  interests  and  our  passions? 
Do  you  suppose  that  the  voice  of  duty,  which  becomes  so  cold  and 
cheerless  when  it  separates  itself  from  God,  is  going  to  have  sufficient 
control  over  him  to  make  him  resist  the  alluring  voice  of  interest  and 
passion  ?  No,  my  child,  that  control  cannot  be  maintained,  unless 
there  is  over  man,  over  his  interests  and  his  passions,  an  authority 
whl(  h  commands  the  sacrifice.  But  let  me  explain  to  you  the  con- 
':equcnces  of  the  system  you  pro[)ose  to  follow,  that  each  man  shall 
crea:e  his  own  moral  law,  and  be  his  own  judge.  All  distinction  then 
between  good  and  evil  would  cease  ;  for  morality  would  become  as 
variable  as  the  character  of  each  individual.  We  would  soon  see  the 
criminals  when  brought  to  justice,  making  their  defence  by  defining 
their  own  sense  of  right  and  wrong,  and  trying  to  convert  the  judges 
to  tlieir  code  of  morality.  The  criminal  would  have  just  as  much 
right  to  honorably  discharge  himself  as  the  judge  would  have  to  con 
deinn  him.  We  must  not  arrogate  to  ourselves  what  we  will  not  i)er- 
mit  in  others.  Morality  founded  on  such  a  system,  having  no  centre 
of  unity,  would  degenerate  into  an  infinity  of  divisions,  discords,  and 
implacable  hates,  (.^od  intends  all  of  ^to  be  subjected  to  one  law, 
which  is  imnuitable  and  absolute,  and  that  law  can  only  be  found,  in  its 
perfection  and  completeness,  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Church.' 


ROME— DEMOCRACY. 


245 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


THK   VAGARIES   OF   SCIENTISTS. — THE  WISDOM    OF    RELIGION. 

The  next  day,  when  the  Bisliop  came,  I  told  him  that  some  of  my 
countryinen,  wlio  had  just  returned  from  Rome,  had  called  on  me 
that  morning,  and  had  decried  the  very  thought  of  believing  that  tlie 
Catholic  Church  was  the  only  true  church.  They  told  me  that  I  ought 
to  go  to  Rome  and  see  for  myself,  for  "  Chi  non  vctfe  non  crede,  e  chi 
vede  perde  la  fede."  (Who  sees  not,  believes  not,  and  whoever  sees 
loses  his  faith.) 

"  I  have  read  Josephus's  history  of  Jerusalem,"  said  the  Bishop, 
"  and  I  have  passed  a  greater  part  of  my  life  in  Rome,  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  Rome  ever  approximated  to  Jerusalem  in  corruption,  dis- 
cord, and  tilth  ;  nor  do  I  believe  that  the  condition  of  Rome  could 
ever  be  compared  to  the  infamous  practices,  wanton  crimes,  and 
social  dei:)ravity  of  the  Jews  during  the  reign  of  the  Herods.  Yet 
what  did  Jerusalem  contain?  The  only  Temple  of  the  living 
God." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  spirit  of  your  church,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
American  peoi)le  are  directly  antipodal.  You  know  that  the  lower 
classes  in  my  country  are  more  enlightened  than  they  are  here,  and 
they  would  not  brook  the  restraint  wliich  the  church  imposes  upon  the 
minds  of  her  adherents.  Our  American  motto  is  '  Excelsior  '  and 
freedom  !  They  look  upon  the  spirit  of  the  church  as  oppressive  and 
opposed  to  democracy." 

"  That  entirely  depends,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  upon  the  definition  the 
American  people  give  to  the  word  democracy.  If  the  Americans 
detine  democracy  to  be  those  principles  which  tend  to  improve  the 
conditions  of  the  lower  classes,  by  aiding  them  to  develoji  their  moral 
being  and  assisting  them  to  use  legitimate  influence  in  politics,  the 
church  is  not  opposed  to  democracy.  In  this  sense  the  churcli  ha?, 
always  been,  and  always  will  be,  the  firm  advocate  and  sui)porter  of 
democracy.  But  if  the  American  people  define  democracy  to  be  the 
tyranny  of  an  ignorant,  impious,  blood-thirsty  mob,  wlio  boldly  pro- 
claim the  abolition  of  religion,  and  of  all  civil  authority,  except  that 


"I 


246 


FRFEDOM   AND   LICENSE. 


which  is  constituted  by  themselves  ;  who  believe  that  the  iiroprielor  i« 
a  thief,  and  tiie  servant  is  tlie  lord ;  who  congregate  by  stealth  in  hid- 
den corners,  to  concoct  plans  for  the  destruction  and  total  extinction 
of  all  legitimate  rules; — if  that  is  the  kind  of  democracy  they  mean, 
they  are  right :  the  church  has  always  made  war  ujjon  it,  and  alvvajs 
will ;  but  that  is  the  only  kind  of  democracy  to  which  the  churcli  has 
ever  been  ojjposed.  And  as  for  your  mottoes,  excelsior  and  free- 
dom, the  church  has  always  had  them  for  hers  since  she  was  created. 
But  our  excelsior  means  divine  progress,  onward,  upward,  and  to 
God ;  we  have  freedom  too,  but  not  license.  That  which  half  of  man- 
kind calls  freedom  and  liberty,  is  nothing  more  than  license.  They 
think  they  are  free,  wl'.en  they  falsify  and  stretcli  their  consciences,  and 
when  they  do  a  thousand  acts  which  religion  condemns  ;  and  they 
think  themselves  enslaved  when  the/  are  forced  to  do  their  duty.  But 
*he  contrary  is  precisely  the  truth." 

"Yes,"  said  1 ;  "but  the  church  has  itf,  own  despotism,  of  course  a 
little  more  refined  than  the  democratic  tyranny  you  have  just  described. 
It  dictates  to  the  colleges  and  universities  what  science,  what  phi- 
losophy, and  what  literature  shall  be  taught :  it  even  prohibits  the 
laity  from  making  a  candid  investigation  into  the  researches  of 
modern  science,  philosoi)hy,  and  literature ;  and  how  then  is  any 
one  to  know  whether  the  old  system  of  things  is  right  and  the 
new  one  is  wrong,  unless  he  compares  for  himself  tlie  one  with  the 
other  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  view  of  the  present  and  future  happiness  of  her  children," 
answered  the  Bishop,  "  that  v.e  look  after  their  mental  and  moral 
training,  and  in  doing  so,  we  are  actuated  by  the  same  feelings  that 
prompts  a  fond  parent  to  watch  over  his  child.  Our  enemies  may 
call  it  tyranny,  desi)otism,  what  they  like.  We  cannot  prevent 
their  calumniating  us,  any  more  than  they  can  prevent  us  condemn- 
ing and  ostracizing  all  systems  of  science  that  turn  against  their 
author,  and  all  morality  which  separates  itself  from  its  root,  which  is 
God.  • 

"  The  Catholic  Church  has  always  honored  and  encouraged  those 
sciences,  wliich  ravish  from  nature  her  secrets,  in  order  to  ameliorate 
and  perfect  the  conditions  of  material  and  civil  life,  as  well  as  those 
moral  sciences  which  demonstrate  th;it  true  happiness  and  prosperity, 
in  order  to  be  real,  to  be  lasiing,  must  be  based  on  correct  principles, 
acknowledging  God  for  their  author  and  their  aim.     The  church  lias 


ill 


FALSE   SCIENCE. 


247 


er  children," 
1  and  moral 


always  rendered  homage  to  those  sciences,  for  she  has  always  found 
them  in  harmony  with  revealed  truth.  But  she  will  never  willingly 
look  on  and  suffer  her  children  to  pollute  their  minds  by  the  so-called 
'sciences'  and  philosoj^hy  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteentli  centuries, 
wliose  result  is  to  ^ixlinguish  the  light  of  true  foith  in  the  minds  of 
the  people,  by  their  atheistic  and  materialistic  suppositions,  and  whose 
i)roi)agandists  call  it  progress,  when,  after  laborious  researches,  they 
discover  man,  who  was  made  after  the  image  of  his  Creator,  to  be 
nothing  more  or  less  than  a  mere  animal,  a  perfected  monkey,  with- 
out a  soul,  there  being  no  immaterial  substance  distinct  from  the 
body,  since  the  soul  is  a  mere  function  of  his  nervous  system. 

"  The  church  condemns  the  science  which  teaches  the  rising  youth 
to  adore  man  and  not  Clod  ;  which  maintains  that  the  only  distinction 
between  right  and  wrong  is  that  which  every  man  chooses  to  define 
for  himself;  which  declares  that  the  time  has  come  to  finish  with 
those  anarchical  and  retrogressive  ideas  introduced  by  Christianity, 
as  religious  ideas,  no  matter  in  what  shape  they  are  produced,  are 
l)ern)anent  causes  of  family  divisions  and  disorders  in  the  State ; 
which  says  that  a  human  being  is  but  an  aggregate  of  fibres  and  pores, 
secreting  and  absorbing  ;  that  the  will  is  a  necessary  expression  of  the 
state  of  the  brain  produced  by  exterior  influences ;  that  there  is  no 
free  will ;  that  an  idea  is  the  production  of  a  combination  analogous 
to  that  of  formic  acid  ;  that  thought  depends  on  the  phosphorus  con- 
tained in  the  cerebral  substance  ;  that  virtue,  devotion,  and  courage 
are  but  the  currents  of  organic  electricity;  and  that  the  substance  of 
conscience  is  matter. 

"  The  men  of  dns  science,"  continued  the  Bishop,  "  define  con- 
science to  be  a  piece  of  mechanism  very  simple  in  its  kind  ;  and,  by 
analysis,  they  have  discovered  it  to  be  a  sort  of  mainspring  of  the 
nervous  system^  which  they,  no  doubt,  suppose  can  be  wound  up  by 
an  impression,  and  left  to  run  down  of  itself,  like  the  mainspring  of  a 
well-regulated  i)iece  of  machinery,  as  a  clock  or  a  watch.  In  perfect 
keeping  with  this  theory  is  the  assertion,  that  what  we  call  the 
soul  is  but  a  combination  of  animal  functions  ;  and  they  have  further 
proved — to  themselves — that  virtue  and  vice  are  mere  productions, 
like  sugar  and  vitriol,  or  like  positive  and  negative  electricity.  And 
what  do  they  proclaim  to  be  the  honorable  aim  of  all  their  laborious 
researches?  That  they  wish  to  '  libkrate  the  human  mind  from 
HvroTHESEs  ANiJ  SUPERSTITIONS,'  such  as  the  belief  in  a  God,  and 


!•  I 


248 


GOD  FIRST  CAUSE. 


in  a  soul ;  for  tbey  look  upon  the  belief  in  Cotl  as  tyranny  upon 
free  thoiis[/it,  and  no  slight  impediment  to  the  movement  of  tli;U 
'mainspring,'  conscience. 

''I^iese  pseudo-philosophers  and  their  deluded  followers  call  the 
church  despotic,  tyrannical,  and  anti-proorkssivk,  when  her  clcryy 
exclaim,  '  May  (lod  deliver  the  rising  and  future  generations  from 
such  sciences,  such  dogmas,  and  such  philosophy  ! '  We  are  wilh'ng, 
indeed,  to  suffer  anything  sooner  than  to  fall  back  into  such  moral 
and  intellectual  barbarism." 

"  They  declare,"  said  I,  "that  one  reason  which  makes  the  church 
prevent  the  people  from  investigating  for  themselves  is,  that  modern 
science  has  proved  the  fallacy  of  miracles." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Bishop,  "  these  harlequins  of  science  deny  a 
first  cause,  because  there  is  a  second  cause.  If  we  say  that  God  has 
sent  a  plague  or  inundated  a  city,  to  punish  the  sins  of  the  people,  to 
try  to  bring  them  to  repentance,  or  to  test  the  faitii  and  virtue  of  the 
righteous,  they  laugh  at  us  ;  because  they  cannot  see  beyond  a  second 
cause.  They  will  demonstrate  how  and  why  a  city  was  destroyed  by 
an  earthquake,  by  proving  to  you  that  it  was  unavoidable  :  they  will 
show  you  that  the  cholera  is  a  microscopic  insect  producing  a  miasma 
in  the  air,  and  that  the  wind  blew  it  to  us  from  Asia ;  that  the  city 
was  flooded  by  too  much  rain,  caused  by  an  excess  of  vapor,  whicj-. 
rose  from  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  afterwards  condensed  into 
clouds;  and  they  will  go  on  explaining  by  natural  laws  everything 
that  happens  in  the  universe,  and  they  declare  that  science  would  be 
at  aji  end,  if  God  had  power  to  do  anything  which  could  not  be  de- 
monstrated to  be  the  effect  of  natural  causes.  But  has  not  the  action 
of  God  something  to  do  with  the  laws  of  natural  science  ?  Do  not 
these  laws  derive  their  force  from  Ciod  ?  Are  they  not  the  mere  ex- 
pressions of  the  divine  will  ?  We,  Catholics,  ask  these  gentlemen, 
Who  made  the  insects  ?  who  caused  the  earthquake  ?  who  created 
the  natural  laws  which  govern  the  wind,  the  thunder,  and  the  clouds  ? 
These  modern  discoverers  are  not  willing  to  admit  that  God  has  the 
power  to  do  wliat  man  can  do  himself;  for  man,  assisted  by  his  know- 
ledge of  mechanics  and  chemistry,  is  constantly  acting  upon  the  laws 
of  nature.  He  does  not  change  them  though,  any  more  than  I  do 
the  law  of  attraction,  when  I  raise  a  stone  from  the  ground.  The 
law  subsists  the  same  as  it  did  before  :  I  only  vary  action  under  it. 
Yet  these  men  pretend  that  God  cannot  do  what  any  man  can  do, 


DlVINi:   PERMISSION. 


245 


ann  just  because  the  universe  is  governed  by  fixed  natural  laws, 
created  by  (iod,  they  dare  to  deny  that  God  has  the  power  of  frke 
ACTION.    They  deny  that  He  who  estabhshed  these  laws,  can  suspend 

t.ieni. 

"These  men  are  determined  to  place  man  above  God  in  everything. 
Listen  to  your  friend  Renan  :  'There  is  no  limit  to  human  intelli- 
gence, there  ir,  nothing  above  man  ! '  and  he  becomes  so  infatuated 
with  his  own  discoveries,  that  he  continues  descending  from  the  sub- 
lime heights  of  truth  until  in  an  abyss  of  error  he  adds,  '  Who  knows 
if  infinite  science  will  not  yet  lead  to  infinite  power  ?  We  can  aflirm 
that  the  final  resurrection  will  be  effected  by  science.' 

"These  pantheists,  materialists,  and  atheists  teach  that  the  meta- 
physics of  Plato,  Descartes,  Malebranche,  Bossuet,  Fenelon,  and 
Leibnitz  can  only  delude  novices,  as  no  reasonable  mind  takes  these 
great  men  to  be  serious.  Instead  of  following  their  elevated  teach- 
ings, we  must  believe  that  man,  spiritual  and  immortal,  on  whom 
God  has  placed  His  image,  like  a  ray  of  divine  light, — man,  with  all 
his  personality,  and  with  all  his  hopes  of  immortal  life,  is  to  return  by 
death  to  his  original  nothingness.  Such  are  the  teachings  which  they 
dare  to  oppose  to  the  faith  of  centuries,  and  to  the  doctrine  of  the 
(greatest  geniuses  of  humatiity.  This  is  what  they  wish  to  substitute 
for  Christianity.  Now  do  you  think  that  Catholic  youth  ought  to  be 
permitted  to  waste  its  hours  over  such  sciences  and  such  litera- 
ture?" 

Said  I :  "  You  Catholics  attribute  everything  that  happens,  to 
God."  "Everything,"  said  the  Bishop,  "but  sin;  for  not  a  leaf 
moves  nor  a  si)arrow  falls,  except  by  His  command."  "  Then,"  said  I, 
"  according  to  your  doctrine,  if  a  man  takes  a  club  and  injures  another 
man,  God  wills  it ;  who  then  is  to  blame  ?  "  "  God  did  not  will  it," 
said  the  Bishop,  "although  He  permitted  it.  He  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  evil  intent  in  the  man's  heart;  for  there  is  the  sin,  the  per- 
verse desire  to  injure  another.  There  is  a  concurrence  of  God,  as 
the  author  and  sustainer  of  nature,  in  the  physical  act  of  the  man  ; 
but  the  intent  is  the  man's.  The  man  Avill  be  jnmished  for  the  intent, 
not  for  the  material  action  ;  for  he  would  not  have  the  power  to  raise 
his  arm,  unless  God  had  given  it  to  him  :  he  could  not  have  taken 
the  club,  unless  God  had  created  it ;  for  although  another  man  put  it 
there,  the  action  still  came  from  (lod  as  first  cause,  for  it  is  in  (iod 
alone,  and  by  God's  co-operation,  that  we  breathe,  move,  and  have 
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DIVINE  PROVIDENCE. 


i-i:- 


our  being.  But  man  has/;-.?^  will ;  therefore  the  motive,  the  intent 
to  do  wrong,  the  mini  is  responsible  for.  God  judges  us  by  our  mo- 
tives and  intentions,  never  by  our  actions  :  it  is  by  our  motives  and 
intentions  that  we  are  condemned  or  justified." 

"  That  may  be  well  enough,"  said  I,  "  to  apply  to  the  man  who 
has  the  evil  intent ;  but  what  satisfaction  is  it  for  the  man  who  re- 
ceives the  blow  ?  "  Said  he  :  "  Every  man  has  the  right  of  self-defence  ; 
but  only  a  justifiable  self-defence  ;  for  he  has  no  right  to  commit  a 
sin  in  order  to  save  his  life.  If  he  is  a  Christian,  he  will  defend  him- 
self like  a  Christian,  and,  if  he  is  overpowered,  he  will  submit  in  silent 
resignation  to  the  will  of  God."  "But,"  said  I,  "why  should  God 
permit  the  wicked  to  overpower  and  scourge  the  righteous  ?  "  "  God 
sometimes  makes  use  of  the  wicked  to  chasten  the  just,  in  the  same 
way  as  a  father  takes  a  rod  and  beats  his  son,  but  afterwards  he 
breaks  the  rod  and  throws  it  into  the  fire.  So  God  does  with  the 
wicked ;  when  they  have  served  His  purposes,  in  chastening  the 
righteous,  He  casts  them  into  hell.  An  evil  man  may  injure  you, 
and  that  injury  may  give  you  an  opportunity  of  acfjuiring  great  merits 
before  God,  by  accepting  it  with  resignation,  knowing  that  it  could 
not  have  happened  to  you  without  His  permission  ;  by  bearing  it 
with  patience,  forgiving  the  one  who  injured  you, — nay,  more,  return- 
ing good  for  evil,  even  loving  the  action  that  stung  you,  as  it  has 
been  the  cause  of  giving  you  an  opportunity  of  acquiring  so  much 
merit  before  God  ;  and  by  praying  God  to  forgive  the  man  who  com- 
mitted the  sin,  the  evil  intent,  which  was  the  cause  of  the  action,  and 
loving  the  man  because,  like  yourself,  he  is  one  of  God's  creatures. 
Therefore  the  man  has  not  really  harmed  you,  the  injury  has  proved 
a  blessing  ;  and  so  it  is  with  everything  that  happens  to  us  that  the 
world  calls  misfortune.  If  we  could  penetrate  into  the  secret  motives 
of  God's  divine  Providence,  we  would  see  that  whatever  hapjiens  to 
us  is  always  for  our  good.  We  have  but  one  thing  to  dread  or  to 
fear,  and  that  is  sin ;  it  and  it  alone  can  injure  us," 

"Now  I  understand,"  said  I,  "the  true  meaning  of  Christian 
charity.  The  word  always  seemed  like  a  mockery  to  me  before,  I 
have  seen  so  nuich  wickedne'^o  done  in  its  name.  I  now  understand 
where  the  religious  get  their  peace,  their  patience,  and  tiioir  resigna- 
tion." "Yes,"  said  the  Bishoj),  "  tliey  enjoy  true  peace;  for  they 
know  that  nothing  can  happen  to  them,  unless  by  the  permission  of 
Uie  holy  will  of  God.     But  oftentimes  God  interferes,  and  will  not 


THE  SANCTION   OF  LAW. 


251 


otivc,  the  intent 
js  us  by  our  mo- 
our  motives  and 

0  the  man  who 
:he  man  who  re- 
t  of  self-defence ; 
i;ht  to  commit  a 
will  defend  hini- 
subniit  in  silent 

vhy  should  God 
eous?"  "God 
ust,  in  the  same 
It  afterwards  he 

1  does  with  the 
chastening   the 

may  injure  you, 

ing  great  merits 

ng  that  it  could 

;  by  bearing  it 

y,  more,  return- 

g  you,  as  it  has 

uiring  so  much 

man  who  com- 

the  action,  and 

iod's  creatures. 

ury  has  i)rovc(l 

to  us  that  the 

secret  motives 

ver  happens  to 

to  dread  or  to 

g  of  Christian 
o  me  before,  [ 
ow  understand 
their  resigna- 
-•ace ;  for  they 
permission  of 
s,  and  will  not 


permit  the  wicked  to  strike  the  righteous.  We  have  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  proofs  in  cases  where  the  righteous  and  just  man 
has  been  shielded  from  the  evil  designs  of  the  wicked  j  but  that  is 
what  the  modern  scientists  say  God  has  not  the  power  to  do.  They 
deny  that  God  has  anything  to  do  with  the  universe,  leaving  it  to 
be  controlled  and  governed  exclusively  by  natural  laws.  But  we  say 
that  God  does  protect  those  who  love  and  fear  Him,  and  when  He 
chasteneth  the  righteous  man,  he  knows  that  it  is  for  his  good,  and 
kisses  the  rod  that  strikes  him.  Job  is  our  great  model,  and  shows 
us  how  God  tries  those  He  loves  in  the  furnace  of  affliction." 
"Yes,"  said  I,  "but  Job  had  a  good  time  at  last:  he  was  well  re- 
warded for  all  he  suffered,  for  he  received  tenfold  more  than  he  lost. 
But  how  many  Jobs  there  are  who  die  in  their  sores,  without  even  a 
winding-sheet  to  wrap  around  them  !  " 

"My  child,"  s^.k!  the  Bishop,  "virtue  and  faith  would  lose  their 
merit,  if  they  were  always  sure  to  receive  an  earthly  lecompense. 
God  has  never  made  prosperity  in  this  world  depend  on  the  practice 
of  supernatural  virtue.  Christ  would  not  have  taught  us  to  believe 
that  the  righteous  should  be  rewarded  after  death  and  the  wicked 
doomed  to  everlasting  punishment,  if  punishments  and  recompenses 
were  to  be  meted  out  to  each  one  in  this  life,  in  proportion  to  their 
merits  or  demerits.  Such  a  view  of  the  case  would  be  unworthy  of 
man's  spiritual  and  immortal  nature,  and,  consequently,  unworthy  of 
religion  and  of  God ;  for  it  would  reduce  religion  to  mere  worldly 
prudence,  and  the  atheists  and  the  materialists  would  be  so  far  right. 

"  We  are  enjoined  to  have  faith  ;  and  what  is  faith  but  the  founda- 
tion of  that  full  confidence  in  God  which  receives  everything  that 
comes  from  His  Almighty  hand  with  filial  gratitude,  whether  it  be 
joy  or  sorrow,  knowing  that  God  is  our  Father,  and  that  no  father  is 
more  of  a  father  than  God.  Why  are  we  enjoined  to  hc])e,  unless  it 
is  for  that  future  reward,  which  we  are  to  receive  from  Him,  as  the 
recomi)ense  of  our  faith  and  perseverance  in  virtue  ?  Why,  too,  are 
we  enjoined  to  have  charity,  unless  it  is  that,  without  it,  we  can  have 
'no  part'  in  God,  it  being  the  fulfilment  and  end  of  all  things?  If 
a  man  holds  a  pistol  to  your  breast,  and  tells  you  he  will  kill  you  unless 
you  reveal  to  him  your  neighbor's  faults,  and  you  prefer  death  rather 
than  to  sin  against  charity,  you  die,  but  you  triumph  over  sin  and  you 
triumph  over  death.  But  God  is  sure  to  overtake  you  both.  He  will 
overtake  the  sinner  in  His  justice  and  the  righteous  in  His  goodness. 


n 


252 


JUSTICE  AND   MERCY. 


H    • 


I 


"  No  one  ever  yet  has  escaped  the  goodness  or  the  justice  of  God, 
although  we  often  doubt  them  both  when  we  see  the  prolonged  pros- 
perity of  the  wicked,  and  the  continual  oppression  of  the  just.  l?iit 
because  God  is  patient,  we  should  not  complain.  God  can  be 
patient,  He  can  wait,  because  He  is  eternal." 

''But,"  said  I,  "if  you  tell  (he  world  that  everything  happens  by 
the  jiermission  of  God's  will,  it  will  ask  you  why  you  rush  to  the 
rescue  and  the  relief  of  the  afflicted,  when  calamities  and  misfortunes 
overtake  them  ;  it  will  tell  you  that  your  conduct  is  a  contradic- 
tion to  your  teaching  ;  for  is  it  not  thwarting  God's  designs  when 
you  interfere,  if  He  sends  those  calamities  to  punish  the  crimes  of 
the  wicked,  or  to  give  the  righteous  an  opportunity  of  acquiring 
virtue." 

'*  My  child,"  said  the  Bishop,  **  when  God  imprinted  on  our  minds 
a  true  knowledge  of  His  justice.  He  told  us  not  to  forget  His  goodness; 
for  we  often  can  appease  the  one  by  imitating  the  other,  and  the 
affliction  that  may  be  sent  by  God  to  scourge  the  sinner,  may  also 
be  intended  to  give  the  good  an  opportunity  of  sanctifying  them- 
selves by  acts  of  charity,  and  winning  the  soul  of  the  sinner.  Those 
who  are  filled  with  ,uch  charity,  recoil  not  from  assisting  such  as  are 
afflicted  or  in  distress,  though  it  be  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  but  never 
at  the  risk  of  losing  their  souls,  for  sin  is  so  hateful  to  God,  that  no 
act  of  virtue  is  sufficient  to  atone  for  it ;  and  although  He  is  always 
ready  to  pardo"  us  when  we  repent,  yet  we  have  no  right  to  presume 
on  His  mercy,  any  more  than  we  have  a  right  to  despair  of  it. 

"  It  is  the  Christian's  duty  to  implore  God's  mercy  for  those  who  are 
in  sin,  even  when  he  knows  that  the  hand  of  God  is  striking  them. 
Do  you  think  that  a  father  would  be  displeased  with  his  son,  if  he 
came  to  him  and  implored  forgiveness  for  the  one  he  was  punishing 
because  he  had  disobeyed  him  ?" 

I  told  the  Bishop  that  I  could  not  believe  that  God  was  the  cause 
of  all  things,  for  I  believed  that  many  things  happened  by  chance. 
For  example,  if  I  met  a  maniac,  who  struck  me  a  blow,  which  never 
would  have  happened  had  I  gone  another  way.  "  Believe  me,"  he 
answered,  **  that  God  ordains  everything  but  sin.  Wliy  He  allows  the 
effects  of  sin  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  Divine  Providence.  But  all 
things  work  together  for  good,  for  them  that  love  God.  For  example, 
the  master  of  a  household  sends  one  of  his  servants  to  a  certain  place  : 
the  next  day  he  despatches  another  messenger  to  the  same  place  ;  the 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  SUFFERING. 


253 


Jwo  messengers  meet  by  chance  ;  but  it  was  not  chance,  for  their 
master  had  designed  it  for  their  mutual  good.  So  it  is  with  every- 
thing that  happens  to  us.  God  sent  you  here  ;  and  He  brought  me 
here  to  try  to  instruct  you, — and  believe  me,  my  child,  it  is  only  by 
being  convinced  of  this  great  truth,  that  our  hearts  can  ever  be  filled 
with  Christian  charity  for  our  neighbor. 

"We  must  believe  that  God  never  permits  anything  to  happen  un- 
less it  is  for  our  good,  or  we  can  never  be  true  Christians  ;  for  if  God 
makes  use  of  another  man's  evil  motives  to  try  your  faith,  or  to  pun- 
ish you  for  your  sins,  you  must  not  hate  that  man,  since,  were  it  not 
for  your  good,  God  would  have  warded  off  his  blows.  One  of  the 
saints  says  to  those  who  get  angry  at  their  neighbor  when  he  has 
injured  them,  that  they  are  like  a  dog  at  whom  a  man  throws  a 
stone ;  he  leaves  the  man  to  run  and  bite  the  stone.  It  is  just  so 
with  us  when  God  sends  us  mortifications  that  we  may  expiate  our 
sins  ;  we  try  to  revenge  ourselves  upon  our  neighbor,  when  it  is  the 
hand  of  God  which  sends  them  to  us.  The  only  thing  we  should 
hate  in  that  man,  is  the  bad  motive  which  prompted  the  action,  and 
we  should  only  hate  that  evil,  because  it  is  displeasing  to  God,  and 
not  because  it  brings  tribulations  on  us ;  for  the  evil  effects  of  sin 
could  not  reach  us,  without  God's  permission.  It  was  this  mystery 
of  suffeiing,  in  which  word  I  Avill  condense  all  our  woes,  that  baf- 
fled the  genius  of  the  pagan  philosophers  to  solve  ;  nor  could  it  be 
solved  by  that  imperfect  light,  which  nature  alone  diffused  in  onr 
minds :  it  was  necessary  for  God  Himself  to  come  and  reveal  the  ex- 
planation of  it  to  us ;  for  imtil  the  coming  of  Christ,  the  human 
mind  had  never  been  able  to  penetrate  its  true  meaning.  It  was 
Jesus  Christ  who  came  and  gave  to  suffering  its  signification.  This 
is  a  great  part  of  what  we  mean,  when  Ave  say  that  Christ  Avas  the 
true  light  that  came  into  the  world  to  illumine  men's  minds;  for  the 
human  mind  was  still  in  darkness,  imtil  the  coming  of  Christ.  It 
had  never  been  able  to  solve  the  greatest  of  all  mysteries,  suft"ering. 
But  Jesus  Christ  gave  to  suffering  a  real  cause,  a  true  sense,  and  a 
reason  ;  and  He  not  only  explained  it,  but  He  'gave  to  it  a  sublime 
dignity,  by  surrounding  it  with  a  halo  of  celestial  light,  that  man 
might  rejoice  amidst  trials,  infirmities,  persecutions,  and  calamities. 
What  spectacle  is  more  worthy  of  the  attention  of  God  than  4liat  of  a 
man  struggling  with  misfortune  ?  What  heroism,  what  courage,  and 
what  force  can  be  compared  to  those  which  a  soul  acquires  from  the 


■ 

1 

p 

[ 

M 

1 

m 

«  ' 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1 

254 


A   REBELLIOUS  MONK. 


graces  it  receives  by  a  steadfast  faith,  a  firm  hope,  and  a  fervent 
charity  ?  These  become  so  many  chains  which  link  that  soul  to 
God.  It  is  then  that  we  can  exclaim  :  Behold  the  supernatural  man ! 
And  such  a  man  really  is  supernatural ;  for  when  he  has  conquered 
himself,  it  is  no  longer  he  who  combats,  but  it  is  God  within  him." 


CHAPTER  LV. 


THE    MOTHER   OF   CIVILIZATION. 


I  ASKED  the  Bishop  why  is  it  that  the  clergy  are  not  all  supernatu- 
ral men,  when  they  are  so  well  instructed ;  "  For  they  must  know,"  I 
said,  "  as  well  as  you,  what  you  have  just  taught  me  ;  and  you  will  not 
pretend  that  they  are  all  as  good  as  yourself?  " 

"  I  am  the  most  unworthy  servant  among  them  all,"  said  the  Bishop. 

I  begged  to  differ  with  him,  and  told  him  that  I  had  read  the 
history  of  the  Reformation,  and  I  believed  that  the  church  had  bad 
men  among  the  clergy.  "  Yes,"  replied  the  Bishop,  **  we  will  admit 
that ;  but  we  also  know  that  Martin  Luther  was  among  the  worst  of 
that  class." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  he  left  the  church  on  account  of  the  abuses  that 
had  crept  into  it."  v 

"But,"  said  the  Bishop,  "that  is  the  last  thing  he  should  have 
done, — to  abandon  her,  and  make  war  upon  her  in  her  distress.  It 
was  his  duty,  as  a  Christian,  to  remain  and  aid  his  brethren  in  religion 
to  reform  these  abuses  which  he  complained  of,  instead  of  becoming 
a  rebellious  monk,  and  pretending  to  reform  the  church ;  for  the  church 
never  needed  reforming  in  doctrine. 

"  The  church  remains  to-day  the  same  as  Christ  created  her.  She 
was  established  to  give  man  the  means  of  sanctification  by  the  use 
of  her  sacraments  and  belief  in  her  dogmas ;  and  those  sacraments 
and  dogmas  have  never  changed ; — they  are  now  what  they  were  when 
our  divine  master  Jesus  Christ  instituted  them." 

"  I  cannot  understand  that,"  said  I.  "  No,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  and 
I  will  nflt  try  to  explain  it  to  you,  for  you  would  not,  as  yet,  have  faith 
in  what  I  would  tell  yon.  But  the  cur6  of  St.  Mande  has  accepted  the 
task :  he  will  try  to  teach  you  later  what  is  essential  for  you  to  know." 


:^'v 


FREE  WILL. 


255 


le  abuses  that 


I  begged  him  to  explain  to  me  why  Martin  Luther  was  wrong  in 
leaving  the  church,  when  he  was  convinced  that  it  was  full  of  abuses. 

The  Bishop  answered  :  '*  No  one  deplored  those  abuses  more  than 
did  the  pastors  of  the  church,  and  so  far  from  countenancing  them, 
she  used  every  possible  means  to  remedy  them,  as  is  proved  by  the 
decrees  of  the  Council  of  Trent,  concerning  those  very  abuses  against 
which  Luther  so  loudly  bellowed. 

"  Had  Luther  directed  his  invectives  against  the  abuses  in  the 
church,  and  pressed  the  necessary  reformation  in  a  canonical  way, 
he  would  have  been  right,  and  would  have  deserved  i)raise. 

"  But  he  began  by  attacking  the  abuses,  and  then  proceeded  to 
attack  the  doctrines,  the  divine  institution  and  power  of  the  church 
itself;  which  showed  that  he  was  instigated  and  directed  by  the  devil, 
not  by  God, — by  pride,  and  ncJt  by  charity.  And  believe  me,  my 
child,  abuses  in  the  church  are  never  reformed  by  the  proud  who 
rebel,  but  by  the  humble  who  suffer,  with  patience,  until  God,  in  His 
mercy,  gives  success  to  their  legitimate  efforts  to  obtain  relief." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  even  Catholic  history  has  spoken  and  condemned 
the  conduct  of  certain  priests.     Why  are  not  the  priests  perfect  ?  " 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  they  are  human  beings,  possessed  of  their 
free  will,  like  everybody  else.  If  they  were  not  subjected  to  the 
same  trials  and  temptations  as  other  men,  they  would  merit  less,  and 
their  crowns  would  be  less  glorious  in  Heaven.  God  gives  the  clergy 
greater  graces  than  He  does  the  laity,  but  those  graces  are  in  propor- 
tion to  their  responsibilities.  The  graces  and  responsibilities  are  dis- 
tributed according  to  a  most  equitable  measure  ;  so  that  the  free  will 
of  every  individual  may  remain  intact,  while  he  has  yet  the  power  to 
accomplish  all  his  duties.  It  would  have  been  a  great  hardship,  to 
have  deprived  the  men  to  whom  He  confided  the  government  of  His 
church,  of  that  most  inestimable  gift,  which  He  has  granted  to  all 
men, — free  will.  God  preferred  to  have  His  divine  graces  in  impure 
hands,  rather  than  deprive  a  human  being  of  his  free  will,  and  the 
more  unworthy  we  find  some  men,  who  are  employed  in  God's 
service,  the  more  we  ought  to  admire  His  magnanimity  and  goodness 
in  bearing  with  such  servants.  The  world  is  apt  to  be  too  rigorous 
and  too  rasli  in  its  judgment  of  the  clergy  ;  for  a  man  may  have  great 
merits  before  God,  without  being  exempt  from  liis  defects  of  char- 
acter, which  only  prove  the  wct  Lness  of  human  nature,  even  when 
surrounded  by  so  much   spiritual  assistance."     "  But  has  not  the 


256 


FAITH  WITHOUT  WORKS. 


«J^ 


church,"  said  I,  "always  been  accused  of  too  much  indulgence  in 
regard  to  individual  morality,  so  long  as  the  individual  submissively 
professes  her  doctrines  ?  " 

"  That  is  another  base  calumny  against  the  church.  For  the  church 
has  never  admitted,  either  in  theory  or  practice,  that  faith  exempts  us 
from  good  morals  :  on  the  contrary,  she  teaches  that  the  grace  of  fiiith 
augments  our  responsibility,  and  increases  our  duty  to  be  virtuous. 
She  teaches  that  faith  without  works  is  dead,  that  he  who  does  not 
believe  will  be  condemned,  and  'that  he  who  believes  and  does  not 
practise  will  be  condemned  also.  Is  it  not  a  historical  and  widely 
known  fact,  that  in  the  sixteenth  century  the  church  preferred  no  longer 
to  rule  in  vast  countries,  which  formerly  submitted  to  her  doctrine, 
rather  than  retrench  anything  of  her  declaration  in  this  respect.  In- 
deed, she  has  often  had  to  weep  over  flie  abandonment  of  he:  children, 
because  she  would  not  consent  to  subscribe  to,  or  permit  them  to 
believe  in,  such  a  fundamental  error  in  doctrine  as  that  faith  was  suf- 
ficient in  itself  for  salvation,  without  an  active  morality  full  of  good 
works. 

"The  church  has  always  been  more  indulgent  towards  those  faults, 
which  only  injure  an  individual,  than  she  has  towards  those  faults 
which  strike  at  the  rights  of  God ;  for  when  we  injure  a  person  in  his 
individual  rights,  we  do  not  strike  at  the  celestial  inheritance  of  faith 
and  truth,  which  is  the  common  patrimony  of  all  mankind ;  whereas, 
in  losing  our  faith,  we  lose  our  moral  light,  and  the  clergy  being 
penetrated  with  this  conviction,  it  is  natural  that  they  should  forgive 
more  readily  personal  offences,  which  can  be  wiped  out  by  repent- 
ance, than  those  faults  which  tend  to  diminish  the  light  of  truth  and 
justice." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  often  heard  that  the  material  prosperity  of 
the  cantons  in  Switzerland,  of  the  small  townships  in  Germany,  and 
also  in  other  countries,  where  Catholicity  was  the  dominant  belief, 
was  far  inferior  to  that  of  those  places  where  the  Protestant  religion 
had  the  ascendency,  which  proved  that  the  church  was  retrogressive, 
and  did  not  contribute  to  the  material  prosperity  of  a  country. 

Said  he  :  "I  have  visited  a  few  of  those  Catholic  cantons,  and  I 
am  sure  that,  were  it  not  for  the  influence  of  the  Catholic  faith,  half 
of  the  population  would  be  bandits,  and  the  other  half  vagabonds. 
But  God  is  good  ;  in  denying  these  people  that  genius  and  spirit  of 
enterprise  which  serve  to  improve  the  conditions  of  civil  life.  He  has 


THE   MISSION   OK  THE   CHURCH. 


257 


not  cleprved  them  of  that  treasure  of  faith,  which  the  true  Christian 
])ii/.es  boyond  all  earthly  ',>rosperity.  Instead  of  giving  them  palaces, 
;  nd  the  \nidtiplied  cares  and  anxieties  which  naturally  attend  human 
grandeur,  He  has  given  them  fliith  and  contentment.  They  are  good, 
lionei^t  laborers,  worthy  of  resi)ect  and  s^minithy,  carrying  with 
courage  the  burden  and  heat  of  he  day,  earning  by  the  sweat  of 
their  brow  the  bread  for  their  families ;  sober,  frugal,  and  temperate, 
good  husbands  and  good  fathers.  Take  away  their  religion,  do  you 
believe  they  would  be  more  virtuous  and  happy  ?  No,  it  is  not  the 
Catholic  religion  that  retards  civilization  in  these  cantons  and  cities, 
but  it  is  the  Catholic  religion  which  has  prevented  the  people  from 
becoming  savage. 

"  When  the  enemies  of  Catholicity  reproach  the  church  with  being 
retrogressive,  they  only  show  their  ignorance  of  her  true  mission. 
She  is  ever  conservative,  and  never  an  innovator.  The  church  is 
our  mother,  and  we  ought  to  believe  that  she  has  the  affections  and 
instincts  of  a  mother.  She  is  divinely  progressive,  she  leads  human 
beings  from  earth  to  heaven.  She  is  no  more  obliged  to  fill  the 
oftices  of  society  than  a  mother  is  to  fill  the  office  of  her  son.  She 
combats  evil  with  spiritual  arms,  such  as  piayer,  divine  grace,  and 
si)iritual  truths,  and  such  argumerts  as  reason  deduces  from  them. 
Eut  she  leaves  society  to  combat  evil  with  material  arms.  For  the 
church  has  always  maintained  that  principle  of  distinction  between 
itself  and  society,  reclaiming  for  the  pastor  of  souls  that  which  be- 
longs to  God,  and  leaving  to  the  laity  that  which  belongs  to  Ciesar. 
A^hat  would  tl"-j  Christian  people,  the  laity,  who  constitute  the  body 
o{  the  church,  have  tc  do  for  the  good  of  humanity,  if  it  was  en- 
joned  upon  the  men  of  the  sanctuary  to  invent  and  to  discover,  and 
to  per 'ect  the  conditions  of  material  life  ?  The  church  is  not  obliged 
to  go  beyond  her  mission  ;  and  although  she  may  let  herself  be  sur- 
'passed  in  external  glitter,  by  the  triumphs  of  human  progress,  yet 
she  is  always  true  to  her  own  mission,  which  is  to  preserve  intact 
those  divine  truths  which  the  Lord  handed  down  to  her,  through  the 
hands  of  His  apostles. 

The  church  is  always  our  mother,  ever  vigilant,  and  so  long  as  her 
children  do  not  deny  her,  nor  persecute  her,  she  shares  with  them  theii 
ditferent  destinies,  miserable  when  they  are  miserable,  and  glorious 
when  they  are  glorious  ;  and  in  all  conditions  her  mission  is  ever  the 
same,  to  instruct,  to  fortify,  and  to  console.  • 


258 


THE    MOTHER    OF    MY   LORD. 


hi  y* 


"There  is  scarcely  a  page  in  history  on  which  is  not  emblazoned  the 
beneficent  and  civilizing  inlluence  of  the  church.  If  nations  and  in- 
dividuais  would  only  be  guided  by  her,  and  obey  her  commandments, 
we  would  have  a  civilization  far  superior  to  the  Utopia  of  Sir  Thomas 
More. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 


11  I 


i;l 


^1  > 

ii  ' 


MOTHER   AND    SON. 

I  COULD  not  understand  how  the  Bishop  could  claim  divinity  of 
origin  for  his  church,  since  I  had  always  heard  that  Catholics  had  de- 
throned Jesus  Christ  and  had  put  in  His  place  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary. 

At  our  next  interview  1  asked  the  Bishop  why  the  church  honored 
and  paid  so  much  devotion  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and,  if  God  in- 
tended that  she  should  receive  so  much  honor,  why  did  He  not  reveal 
it  in  the  scripture. 

"God  honored  her,"  said  the  Bishop,  "by  choosing  her  among  all 
women,  to  be  the  mother  of  His  Son.  1  he  archangel  Gabriel  hon- 
ored her  and  saluted  her,  '  Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace.'  The  mothet 
of  John  the  Baptist,  her  cousin  Elizabeth,  honored  her,  when  inspired 
by  the  Holy  Ghost,  she  exclaimed,  '  Blessed  art  thou  among  women  : 
whence  is  this  to  me  that  the  nVother  of  my  Lord  should  come  to 
me  ? '  And  Mary  herself  prophesied  that  by  the  will  of  God,  she 
shall  be  glorified  on  earth,  whence  she  exclaimed  :  *  From  hence- 
forth ALL  nations  shall  call  me  blessed.' 

"  Christ  himself  honored  her  by  performing  His  first  miracle  in  com- 
pliance with  her  request,  at  the  wedding  of  Cana,  where  the  '  water 
saw  its  God  and  blushed.' 

"While  in  His  agony  on  the  cross  He  says  to  John,  'Behold  thy 
mother,'  and  to  Mary,  '  Behold  thy  son  ! '  In  that  moment,  Christ, 
Mary,  and  His  church  were  united  for  the  redemption  of  mankind. 
The  world  until  then  had  God  for  its  Father,  but  Christ  bequeathed 
to  it  a  Mother,  in  the  person  of  His  own  Mother,  the  Virgin  Mary, 
who  was  the  spouse  of  (iod.  And  did  not  Mary  share  the  sufferings 
of  her  Son  ?  Did  she  not  follow  Him  to  Calvary  ?  Did  she  not 
stand  for  hours  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  ?  and  was  she  not  crucified 


ai;-;! 


i 


D. 


not  emblazoned  the 

Jf  nations  and  in-      ■*^''' 
ler  conimandineiUs, 
topia  of  Sir  Thomas 


d  claim  divinity  of 
t  Catholics  had  de- 
lessed  Virgin  Mary, 
be  church  honored 
in,  and,  if  God  in- 
r  did  He  not  reveal 

sing  her  among  all 
ingel  Gabriel  hon- 
ice.'  The  mothei 
her,  when  inspired 
ou  among  women  : 
d  should  come  to 
will  of  God,  she 
1  :    *  From  hence- 

rst  miracle  in  com- 
where  the  *  water 


ohn,  'Behold  thy 
t  moment,  Christ, 
)tion  of  mankind. 
Christ  bequeathed 
the  Virgin  Mary, 
ire  the  sufferings 
^?  Did  she  not 
she  not  crucified 


4f/.-//'r>   yf/n>(  ■  ^'A 


with 

with 

moth 

stripi 

on  a 

they 

her 

the  b 

in  the 

body 

trickl 

"J 

passic 

discii 

"V 
that  Y 

"B 
thirst 
moisti 
wards 
placin 
thirst 

"M 
by  ar 
share 
opera 
her  S 
which 

"C 
shoul( 
ated  ) 
but  ri 
of  Ma 

her; 
her,  a 
acknc 
to  prj 
in  he] 


A  mother's  anguish. 


259 


with  Him  ?  I  appeal  to  all  mothers.,  whether  Mary  was  not  crucified 
with  her  Son  ?  For  what  greater  crucifixion  has  the  world  for  a 
mother,  than  to  see  the  beloved  and  only  child  of  her  womb  ruthlessly 
stri[)ped,  thrown  down  by  merciless  hands,  and  stretched  out  naked 
on  a  cross — to  stand  by  and  to  hear  the  strokes  of  the  hammer  as 
they  hit  upon  the  nails  wliich  pierce  his  flesh  !  Every  blow  falls  on 
her  heart.  When  the  sounds  of  the  hammer  cease,  she  can  hear 
the  brutal  voices  of  His  murderers,  as  they  raise  the  cross  to  plant  it 
in  the  earth :  what  a  spectacle  for  a  mother  to  behold  the  virginal 
body  of  her  son  exposed  to  the  public  gaze,  and  to  see  the  blood 
trickling  from  His  hands  and  feet ! 

"Jesus  sees  His  mother  In  her  affliction.  He  casts  upon  her  a  com- 
passionate look,  and  recommends  her  to  the  care  of  His  beloved 
disciple. 

"  What  could  fill  a  mother's  heart  with  greater  anguish,  than  to  feel 
that  her  child  was  pitying  her,  while  he  writhes  in  mortal  agony. 

"  But  still  another  and  a  greater  agony  awaited  her.  He  cries,  *  I 
thirst ! '  and  she  must  stand  and  hear  that  cry !  Yet  she  cannot 
moisten  His  dying  lips,  but  must  see  His  murderers  hasten  to- 
wards Him  surfeiting  their  vengeance,  even  on  His  last  breath,  and 
placing  vinegar  to  her  beloved  child's  mouth  to  quench  His  dying 
thirst  ! 

"Mary had  never  sinned  ;  she  was  pure  and  holy,  honored  by  God, 
by  angels,  and  by  man.  She  was  intended  by  God  to  have  her 
share  in  the  redemption  of  mankind,  as  Eve,  the  first  woman,  co- 
operated in  its  fall :  she  suffered  for  our  sinS,  and  was  crucified  with 
her  Son.  For  woman  there  exists  no  greater  suffering  than  that 
which  Mary  underwent. 

"  Christ  intended  that  His  mother,  who  had  shared  His  suffering, 
should  share  His  glories  also,  and  that  she  should  henceforth  be  associ- 
ated with  His  church  in  the  redemption  of  the  world.  Was  it  not 
but  right?  and  was  it  not  but  just  ?  Who  will  deny  the  prerogatives 
of  Mary  ?  and  who  that  loves  her  Son  will  refuse  them  to  her  ? 

"  All  Christian  nations,  from  the  beginning  of  the  church,  revered 
her ;  and  every  time  we  honor  Mary  we  honor  God.  We  implore 
her,  as  we  do  the  saints,  to  present  our  petitions  to  Him,  which  is 
acknowledging  that  God  is  above  them  all.  Whenever  we  ask  Mary 
to  pray  for  us,  we  make  an  act  of  humility,  for  it  shows  that  we  trust 
in  her  intercession  more  than  in  our  own  unaided  prayers. 


m^' 


26o 


A   RULE   OF  INTERPRETATION. 


*'  It  is  false,"  continued  the  Bishop,  "  for  our  enemies  to  accuse  us  of 
confiding  more  in  Mary  than  Ave  do  in  God.  But  we  do  confide  more 
in  her  prayers  than  we  do  in  our  own  ;  for,  as  St.  Bernard  has  justly 
said,  '  No  one  has  ever  had  recourse  to  her  protection  or  sought  her  j 
mediation  without  obtaining  relief.'  " 


CHAPTER   LVII. 

"THE  DIVINE  TRAGEDY." — THE  PRAYER  OF  OMNIPOTENCE. 

Bishop  Semeria  did  not  forget  what  I  had  told  him  about  Renan's 
vivid  word-painting  of  the  passion  and  death  of  Christ,  and  resolved 
to  give  me  a  Catholic  reading  of  the  divine  tragedy  on  Calvary,  and 
Catholic  interpretations  of  scripture.  I  was  eager  to  see  if  the  Catho- 
lics perverted  the  interpretation  of  scripture  as  much  as  the  Pro- 
testants accus&d  them  of  it.  He  gave  me  to  understand  that  no  one 
could  fidly  comprehend  the  passion  of  our  Lord  unless  he  knew 
something  about  the  history  of  the  age  in  which  it  transpired,  any 
more  than  a  man  could  understand  the  Old  Testament  unless  he  was 
familiar  with  the  age  and  the  circumstances  under  which  each  prophet 
spoke ;  for  his  visions  and  his  symbols  tend  only  to  throw  the  mind  into 
a  fantastic  world,  and  a  person  is  exposed  to  fall  into  illusive  dreams ; 
as  has  often  happened  to  vivid  imaginations,  which  have  undertaken 
to  go  over  these  regions  with  the  exclusive  help  of  their  faith  and 
their  personal  inspirations. 

The  Bishop  first  read  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  accord- 
ing to  St.  John,  containing  the  promises  of  Christ  to  His  disciples — 
and  said  that  the  words  of  the  last  verse,  which  are  as  it  were  the  last 
farewell  of  Jesus  to  His  apostles,  have  perpetually  armed  the  soul  of 
His  disciples  with  an  immovable  faith  in  the  success  of  their  mission. 

*'  In  whatever  difficulties  they  may  have  found  themselves,  or  what- 
ever obstacles  they  may  have  had  to  surmount,  they  have  ever  recalled 
this  word  of  their  master,  '^  I  have  overcome  tJic  world ;''  and  this 
magical  word  has  given  to  thoni  tliat  heroic  courage,  which  has  led 
them  forth  to  brave  the  most  violent  persecutions,  the  most  infamous 
calumnies,  and  the  most  insulting  disdain.  After  these  words  Jesus 
lifted  up  His  eyes  to  Heaven  and  addressed  to  His  Father  this  touch- 


THE   PRELUDE   OF  THE  SACRIFICE. 


261 


'  OMNIPOTENCE. 


ing  prayer,  which  is,  as  it  were,  a  prehide  to  the  consummation  of 
His  sacrifice  :     (Chap,  xvii.) 

"  '  I  Father,  the  hour  is  come ;  glorify  thy  Son,  that  thy  Son  also  may 

glorify  thee  : 

"  '  2  As  thou  hast  given  him  power  overall  flesh,  that  he  should  give 
eternal  life  to  as  many  as  thou  hast  given  him. 

"  '  3  And  thitf  is  eternal  life,  that  they  might  know  thee  the  only  true 
God,  and  Jesus  Christ,  whom  thou  hast  sent. 

'"4  I  have  glorified  thee  on  the  earth:  I  have  fi.iished  the  work 
which  thou  gavest  me  to  do. 

"  '  5  And  now,  O  Father,  glorify  thou  me  with  thine  own  self  with  the 
glory  which  I  had  with  thee  before  the  world  was. 

"'6  1  have  manifested  thy  name  unto  the  men  which  thou  gavest 
nie  out  of  the  world  :  thine  they  were,  and  thou  gavest  them  me  ;  and 
they  have  kept  thy  word. 

"  '  7  Now  they  have  known  that  all  things  whatsoever  thou  hast 
given  me  are  of  thee. 

"  '  8  For  I  have  giv^n  unto  them  the  words  which  thou  gavest  me  ; 
and  they  have  received  them,  and  have  known  surely  that  I  came  out 
from  thee,  and  they  have  believed  that  thou  didst  send  me. 

"  '  9  I  pray  for  them  :  I  pray  not  for  the  world,' — No  ;  for  He  came 
to  destroy  that  world,  which  He  designated  as  the  incarnation  of  evil, 
and  of  false  maxims,  and  as  the  kingdom  of  Satan  : — '  but  for  them 
which  thou  hast  given  me  ;  for  they  are  tlime. 

"  '  10  And  all  mine  are  thine,  and  thine  are  mine ;  and  I  am  glori- 
fied in  them. 

"  *  1 1  And  now  I  am  no  more  in  the  world,  but  these  are  in  the  world, 
and  I  come  to  thee.  Holy  Father,  keep  through  thine  own  name 
those  whom  thou  hast  given  me,  that  they  may  be  one,  as  we 
are. 

"  *  12  While  I  was  with  them  in  the  world,  I  kept  them  in  thy  name  : 
those  that  thou  gavest  me  I  have  kept,  and  none  of  them  is  lost, 
but  the  son  of  perdition  ;  that  the  scri|)ture  niig''*^  be  fulfilled. 

"  '13  And  now  come  I  to  thee;  and  these  tilings  I  speak  in  the 
world  that  they  might  have  my  joy  fulfilled  in  themselves. 

"  '  14  I  have  given  them  thy  word  ;  and  ihe  world  liath  hated  them, 
because  they  are  not  of  the  world,  even  as  I  am  not  of  the  world. 

"  •  15  I  pray  not  that  thou  shouldest  take  them  out  of  the  world,  but 
that  thou  shouldest  keep  them  from  the  evil. 


ii   I      " 


liB  Is     i: 


262 


THE   GOSPEL   OF   LOVE. 


"  *  16  They  are  not  of  the  world,  even  as  I  am  not  of  the  world. 

"'17  Sanctify  them  through  thy  truth  :  thy  word  is  truth. 

"  '  18  As  thou  hast  sent  nie  into  the  world,  even  so  have  I  also  sent 
them  into  the  world. 

'"19  And  for  their  sakes  I  sanctify  myself,  that  they  also  might  be 
sanctified  through  the  truth. 

"  '  20  Neither  pray  I  for  these  alone,  but  for  them  also  which  shall 
believe  on  me  through  their  word  j 

"'21  That  they  all  may  be  one  ;  as  thou,  Father,  art  in  me,  and  I 
in  thee,  that  they  also  may  be  one  in  us  ;  that  the  world  may  believe 
that  thou  hast  sent  me. 

"  *  22  And  the  glory  which  thou  gavest  me  I  have  given  them  ;  thrt 
they  may  be  one,  even  as  we  are  one  : 

"  '  23  I  in  them,  and  thou  in  me,  that  they  may  be  made  perfect  in 
one  ;  and  that  the  world  may  know  'hat  thou  hast  sent  me,  and  hast 
loved  them,  as  thou  hast  loved  me. 

"  '  24  Father,  I  will  that  they  also,  whom  thou  hast  given  me,  be 
with  me  where  I  am  ;  that  they  may  behold  my  glory,  which  thou 
hast  given  me  :  for  thou  lovedst  me  before  the  foundation  of  the 
world. 

'"25  O  righteous  Father,  the  world  hath  not  known  thee ;  but  I 
have  known  thee,  and  these  have  known  that  thou  hast  sent  me. 

"  '  26  And  I  have  declared  unto  them  thy  name,  and  will  declare 
it :  that  the  love  wherewith  thou  hast  loved  me  may  be  in  them,  and 
I  in  them.' 

"  During  the  course  of  His  evangelical  career,  Jesus  had  publicly 
addressed  Himself  several  times  to  His  Father.  Hut  in  no  other 
prayer  does  Christ  display  that  penetrating  softness,  that  all  divine 
tenderness,  which  we  find  in  these  words,  which  rise  from  His  glow- 
ing heart  immediately  before  the  consummation  of  His  sacrifice. 
His  sublime  language  has  no  longer  anything  earthly,  and  He  ex- 
presses in  a  loud  voice  His  wishes  for  His  own,  because  this  prayer 
is  intended  as  a  lesson  in  which  can  be  found  a  summary  of  the 
whole  spirit  of  Christianity. 

*'  The  union  of  men  with  God,  and  the  union  of  men  with  each 
other, — that  is  what  Jesus  asks  of  His  Father ;  and  it  is  that  twofold 
love  which  it  is  the  object  of  the  religion  of  Christ  to  propagate 
over  the  earth — to  love  God  and  our  neighbor.  Therein  is  tlie 
whole  gospel. 


not  of  the  world. 

rd  is  truth. 

I  so  have  I  also  sent 

t  they  also  might  be 

em  also  which  shall 

er,  art  in  me,  and  I 
world  may  believe 

^e  given  them  ;  thrt 

be  made  perfect  in 
sent  me,  and  hast 

hast  given  me,  be 
glory,  which  tliou 
foundation  of  the 

nown  thee  ;  but  I 
hast  sent  me. 

and  will  declare 
y  be  in  them,  and 

-'sus  had   publicly 

But  in  no  other 

ss,  that  all  divine 

>e  from  His  glow- 

of  His  sacrifice. 

thly,  and  He  ex- 

.'cause  this  prayer 

summary  of  the 

)f  men  with  each 

it  is  that  twofold 

list  to  propagate 

Therein   is  the 


B 

m 

fpffl 

1    ; 

4 

1 

i  ■ 

I 

i 

THE  AGONY. 


THE  GARDEN   OF  AGONY. 


263 


^^5= 


fe . 


--L?^> 


THE     AGONY. 

"  After  Jesus  had  addressed  this  prayer  to  His  Father,  He  went 
with  His  disciples  beyond  the  torrent  of  Cedron.  The  ravine  where 
this  torrent  flowed  is  now  called  the  valley  of  Jehosaphat.  This 
valley  served  as  the  dividing  line  between  the  tribe  of  Judah  and  that 
of  Benjamin.  It  was  near  this  torrent  that,  every  year,  they  sent 
forth  the  emissary-goat,  which  threw  itself  down  the  precipice  at 
Ziik,  twelve  miles  from  Jerusalem,  in  expiation  of  the  iniquities  of 
the  people.  It  was  also  near  this  ravine  that  they  used- to  make 
the  red  cow  p;'.ss  from  the  mountain  of  the  Temple  to  the  Mount 
of  Olives,  where  it  was  immolated  for  the  sins  of  the  people.  Jesus, 
who  was  to  fulfil  in  Himself  all  the  symbols  and  figures,  as  well  as 
the  prophecies  of  Holy  Writ,  crossed  this  torrent,  and  drank  of  its 
waters,  on  His  sorrowful  way,  as  the  prophet  had  spoken  of  Him. 
Thenck,  he  went  to  the  foot  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  into  a  place 
called  Gethsemane.  In  this  place  was  a  garden,  whither  Jesus  had 
often  resorted  .ith  His  apostles  and  disciples.  As  He  entered  this 
enclosure.  He  said  to  His  disciples  : 

" '  Sit  you  here,  till  I  go  yonder  and  pray  ;  and  ji'ray  ye  also  that 
ye  enter  not  into  temptation  ; '  and  taking  with  Him  Peter,  and 
James,  and  John,  the  same  who  had  witnessed  his  transfiguration  on 
Mount  Thabor,  he  began  to  grow  sorrowful  and  to  be  sad,  and  he 
said  to  them  :  '  My  soul  is  sorrowful  even  unto  death  ;  stay  you 
here  and  watch  with  me.'  Then,  going  a  little  further,  he  fell  upon 
his  face,  praying  and  saying :  '  My  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this 
chalice  pass  from  me  ;  nevertheless,  not  as  I  will,  but  as  f/iou  wilt.' 

"  While  Christ  was  thus  a  prey  to  the  repugnances  of  the  flesh,  and 
to  the  loathings  which  nature  had  excited  in  his  desolate  soul,  an 
angel  appeared  to  him  from  Heaven  to  strengthen  him.  This  celes- 
tial envoy  doubtless  expressed  to  Him  the  will  of  His  Father,  the 
infinite  merits  of  his  sacrifice,  the  salvation  of  men,  attached  to  the 
sufferings  which  he  was  to  endure,  and  tiie  glory  that  He  would 
derive  from  His  humiliations.  These  thoughts  make  Him  impa- 
tient to  give  his  life  for  mankind  ;  but  the  combat  which  had  risen 
in  His  soul,  between  the  inferior  and  the  superior  part  of  His 
human  nature,  still  contin'ied.  In  that  struggle  or  agony.  He  pros- 
trates hhnself  on  the  earth,  redoubles  His  prayer,  and  re])eats  the 


•m 


I 


264 


THE   BAPTISi\      M"  BLOOD. 


im 


ii*^-  > 


request  He  first  made  to  His  Fatl-er.  TTe  had  told  us  of  His  eager 
desire  to  suffer  His  bloody  baptism  for  the  salvation  of  men.  Rut 
now  He  })rays  that  this  cup  of  agony  may  be  made  to  pass  away 
from  His  lips,  that  He  may  not  drink  it !  We  may  well  imagine 
that,  overwhelmingly  as  He  permitted  His  inferior  nature  to  ai)pie- 
hend  the  pain  and  the  shame  and  the  ])hysical  agony,  yet  this  was 
the  smallest  and  least  bitter  part  of  the  draught  He  nuist  drink. 
Love  such  as  Hi';  might  have  made  light — as  it  had  done — of  all 
this  ;  but  it  could  not  endure,  wUhout  a  deathly  struggle,  the  ingra- 
titude and  indifference  of  men,  and,  still  worso,  the  uselessness  of 
His  suffering  for  so  many,  who  would  be  lost  in  spite  of  His  suffer- 
ing and  deati;.  It  was  this  vhich  caused  that  mysterious  and  un- 
heard of  sweat,  which  covered  His  whole  body,  and  fell  in  bloody 
drops  uj^on  the  ground. 

"  Jesus  arose  after  this  prayer,  and,  coming  to  His  ajjostles,  He 
found  them  asleep.  They,  too,  were  cast  down  by  sadness,  and  had 
not  the  strength  to  watch  and  pray,  as  their  master  had  charged 
them  to  do.  Jesus,  however,  could  not  refrain  from  reproaching 
them,  because  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  placed  were  so 
grave  that  they  should  have  overcome  the  weariness  of  nature,  and 
He  :;aid  to  them  :  '  Why  sleep  ye  ?  Arise,  and  i)ray  that  you  may 
not  enter  into  temptation  ; '  and  He  said  to  Peter  :  '  Simon,  sleei)cst 
thou  ?  Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  one  hour  ?  Watch  ye  and 
pray  that  you  enter  not  into  temptation.  The  spirit  indeed  is  will- 
ing, but  the  tlesh  is  weak.'  By  these  last  words  he  wished  them  to 
understand  that  we  are  all  zealous  in  making  generous  resolutions, 
but,  when  it  is  necessary  to  execute  them,  we  are  weak  and  power- 
less, if  the  grace  of  God  is  not  there  to  aid  us.  After  saying  these 
words  He  retired  again  to  pray,  for  the  second  time,  '  My  Father, 
if  this  chalice  may  not  pass  away,  but  I  nuist  drink  it.  Thy  will  be 
done  '  This  was  the  accent  of  the  most  absolute  resignation.  He 
came  again  to  His  apostles,  and  found  them  still  sleeping  ;  for  their 
eyes  were  heavy.  Leaving  them,  he  went  and  prayed  the  third  time, 
repeating  die  same  prayer.  Then  He  returned  to  His  disci])lcs, 
who  still  slept.  He  had  compassion  on  their  weakness,  and  He 
spoke  to  them  gently,  saying,  '  Sleep  now,  and  take  your  rest : 
behold  the  hour  is  come  when  the  Son  of  Man  shall  be  betrayed 
into  the  hands  of  sinners.  Rise,  let  us  go  :  behold  he  is  at  hand 
that  will  betray  jue.' 


THE  traitor's   KISS. 


265 


Id  us  of  His  eager 
tion  of  men.  Rut 
lade  to  pass  away 
may  avcII  imagine 
r  nature  to  appro- 
xgony,  yet  tliis  was 
It  He  nuist  drink, 
t  had  done — of  all 
struggle,  the  ingra- 
the  uselessness  of 
[)ite  of  His  suffer- 
nysterious  and  un- 
and  fell  in  bloody 

)  His  apostles,  He 

y  sadness,  and  had 

laster  had  charged 

from  reproaching 

ire  placed  were  so 

ess  of  nature,  and 

)ray  that  you  may 

'  Simon,  sleepest 

?     Watch  ye  and 

irit  indeed  is  will- 

e  wished  them  to 

erous  resolutions. 

weak  and  power- 

^fter  saying  these 

ime,  '  My  Father, 

ik  it,  Thy  will  he 

resignation.     He 

■ping  ;  for  their 

ed  the  third  time, 

to   His  disciples, 

eakness,  and  He 

take    your  rest: 

hall  be  betrayed 

Id  he  is  at  hand 


THE    ARREST. 

"  In  social  catastrophes  it  always  hai)pens  that  the  good  people,  who 
should  he  the  defenders  of  right  and  justice,  keep  themselves  aloof, 
retiring  quietly  into  their  houses  and  satisfying  themselves  by  making 
energetic  jjrotestations,  which  they  have  not  the  courage  to  sustain 
by  vigorous  action.  While  they  sleep,  the  consi)irators  are  employing 
all  their  activity.  They  meet,  they  concert  together,  they  arm  them- 
selves, and  when  they  are  ready,  they  march  with  ardor  to  the  execu- 
tion of  their  designs.  So  it  was  with  Judas.  While  the  other  apostles 
were  sleeping,  he  did  not  lose  an  instant  from  the  time  he  went  out 
of  the  supper-hall.  He  went  to  find  the  chief  priests,  who  had  given 
him  the  i)rice  of  his  treason.  He  took  their  orders,  and  the  spot 
was  agreed  upon  where  he  should  betray  his  master  to  them.  He 
assembled  quickly  a  band  of  hirelings,  who  enrolled  themselves  under 
his  direction,  in  order  to  aid  him  to  consummate  his  crime  ;  and 
they  started  at  once  for  the  garden  of  Gethsemane. 

"  Jesus,  who  knew  all  that  was  passing,  had  hardly  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  traitor,  when  Judas  Iscariot  appeared.  The  chief  priests 
and  the  Pharisees  had  placed  at  his  disposition  a  cohort,  which  was 
formed  of  Roman  soldiers  and  satellites.  These  satellites  were  a 
class  of  ruffians,  without  profession,  who  were  always  ready  to  do 
any  foul  deed,  and  to  execute  any  order  that  was  given  them.  The 
servants  of  the  chief  priests,  and  of  the  other  persecutors  of  Jesus, 
also  joined  the  gang.  The  satellites  were  armed  with  swords  and 
staves,  and  jjresented  the  barbarous  aspect  of  undisciplined  and 
irregular  troops.  This  mob  was  guided  by  the  light  of  torches  and 
lanterns  which  the  servants  of  the  scribes,  the  elders,  and  the  chief 
priests  carried  before  them.  The  traitor  Judas  knew  that  some  of 
the  disciples  that  were  with  Jesus  were  armed  ;  for  it  was  then  neces- 
sary, as  it  is  to-day,  for  travellers  in  the  East  to  arm  themselves.  It 
was  for  that  reason  that  Judas  did  not  wish  to  enter  into  the  garden 
of  Gethsemane,  unaccompanied  by  an  imposing  troop.  He  marched 
at  the  head  of  the  soldiers  and  satellites,  and  said  to  them  :  '  Whom- 
soever I  shall  kiss,  that  is  he  :  hold  him  fast.'  The  signal  and  the 
design  were  worthy  of  the  same  man.  Forthwith,  coming  to  Jesus, 
he  said  :  '  Hail,  master  ! '  and  he  kissed  him.  Jesus,  with  inexpressi- 
ble sweetness,  said  to  him  :  '  Friend,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ?  dost 
19 


266 


THE   LAMB  AMID  THE   WOLVES. 


4 


thou  betray  the  Son  ot  Man  with  a  kiss  ? '  That  word,  which  was 
sufficient  to  shake  the  most  obdurate  heart,  must  have  made  an 
impression  on  the  ruffians  who  accompanied  Judas  ;  for,  instead  of 
instantly  seizing  him  whom  the  traitor  had  designated, -they  remain- 
ed motionless.  Jesus,  far  from  seeking  to  avoid  them,  advanced 
towards  them  and  said :  *  Whom  seek  ye  ? '  They  answered  him  : 
'  Jesus  of  Nazareth.'  Jesus  said  to  them  :  '  I  am  he  ; '  and,  as 
soon  as  He  had  said  the  words,  '  I  am  he,'  they  \vent  backward, 
and  fell  to  the  ground.  Judas  had  retired  into  the  midst  of  theui, 
and  when  he  saw  Jesus  advance,  he  too  fell  with  the  miscreants  who 
had  made  themselves  his  accomplices. 

"Jesus  wished  to  give  them  a  sensible  proof  of  His  power,  in  order 
to  engage  them  to  reflect  on  the  enormity  of  their  crime  ;  which  miglu 
bring  them  to  implore  His  pardon.  But  this  warning  had  no  effect 
upon  them  ;  for  when  they  arose,  Jesus  asked  them  again  :  '  Whom 
seek  ye  .-* '  and  they  said  :  '  Jesus  of  Nazareth.'  Jesus  answered  :  '  I 
have  told  you  that  I  am  he  ;  if  therefore  it  is  I  whom  you  seek,  arrest 
me  ;  but  let  these  go  their  way.'  He  designated  His  disciples,  and  he 
made  this  reserve  in  their  favor,  that  the  word  which  He  had  spoken 
to  His  Father  might  be  fulhlled,  '  Of  them  whom  thou  hast  given  me, 
I  have  not  lost  one.' 

"  The  satellites  of  Judas  then  approached  Jesus,  seized  him,  and 
took  him  into  custody.  This  was  the  moment  for  the  disciples  to 
show  the  ardent  zeal  with  which  they  said  they  were  inflamed  for  the 
defence  of  their  master.  Those  who  surrounded  him,  understood  per- 
fectly what  was  going  to  happen,  and  they  cried  out,  in  their  fright ; 
'Lord,  shall  we  draw  the  sword?'  Simon  Peter,  who  was  armed, 
without  waiting  for  Jesus  to  reply,  drew  his  sword,  and  struck  the  ser- 
vant of  the  high-priest,  and  cut  off  his  ear.  Jesus  at  once  checked 
the  indiscreet  zeal  of  His  apostle,  and  said  to  him  :  'Put  up  again  thy 
sword  into  its  place  ; '  and  He  even  miraculously  healed  the  wounded 
ear.  After  having  repaired,  by  an  effort  of  His  divine  power,  the  evil 
that  the  inconsiderate  zeal  of  the  first  of  the  apostles  had  done,  Ho 
profited  by  this  circumstance  to  remind  them  that  they  were  not  to 
resist  violence  by  violence,  and  diat  His  doctrine  was  to  triumph  over 
the  sword  by  gentleness  and  persuasion.  Jesus  therefore  said  to  Peter  : 
*  Put  up  thy  sword  into  the  scabbard  ;  for  all  that  take  the  sword, 
Bhall  p'  lish  by  the  sword.  The  chalice  which  my  Father  hath  given 
me,  shall  I  not  drink  it  ?    Besides,  thinkest  thou  that  I  need  help,  and 


ABANDONED   BY   HIS  OWN. 


267 


t  word,  which  was 
>t  have  made  an 
s  ;  for,  instead  of 
ited,-they  reniain- 

I  them,  advanced 
y  answered  him  : 
am  he  ; '  and,  as 

went  backward, 
le  midst  of  them, 
e  miscreants  who 

is  power,  in  order 
me  ;  which  might 
ing  had  no  effect 

II  again  :  '  Whom 
HIS  answered  :  '  I 
1  you  seek,  arrest 

disciples,  and  he 
1  He  had  spoken 
m  hast  given  me, 

seized  him,  and 
the  disciples  to 
inflamed  for  the 
understood  per- 
in  their  fright ; 
who  was  armed, 
struck  the  ser- 
it  once  checked 
'ut  up  again  thy 
ed  the  wounded 
^ower,  the  evil 
had  done,  He 
ey  were  not  to 
o  triumph  over 
e  said  to  Peter  : 
ake  the  sword, 
her  hath  given 
need  help,  and 


that  I  cannot  ask  my  Father,  and  he  will  give  me  presently  more  than 
tweU'.  legions  of  angels  to  deliver  me  from  my  enemies  ?  But  if  I 
oppose  the  violence  that  is  done  me  to-day,  how  then  shall  the  scrip- 
ture be  fultilled,  which  says  that  I  nuist  drink  this  bitter  chalice  which 
is  prepared  for  me,  and  thus  submit  to  the  will  of  my  I"'ather?' 

"The  arrest  of  Jesus  was  altogether  contrary  to  the  Jewish  law. 
According  to  the  law  in  force  at  that  epoch,  the  chief  priests,  after 
being  furnished  with  a  regular  bill  of  indictment,  should  have  met,  in 
order  to  see  if  there  was  cause  for  apprehending  Jesus.  If  they  were 
satisfied  with  the  indictment  they  should  render  a  iirst*judgment,  in 
accordance  with  which,  they  would  have  given  a  warrant  for  His  ar- 
rest, to  men  who  were  charged  by  the  law  to  execute  it.  But,  instead 
of  following  this  juridical  proceeding,  they  employ  agents  whom  they 
send  as  deputies  to  s|)y  into  His  conduct  and  words,  and  to  try  to 
make  Him  say  something  which  might  lead  to  an  accusation.  Not 
having  succeeded  in  this,  they  assembled  together,  not  to  examine 
if  He  was  guilty,  but  to  devise  some  means  by  which  they  could  seize 
Him  by  stealth.  One  of  His  apostles  having  presented  himself,  and 
offered  to  deliver  up  His  master,  they  bought  the  traitor's  service, 
and  so  began  their  judicial  proceedings  by  an  infamous  treason.  The 
troop  which  they  sent  to  arrest  Jesus,  was  a  band  of  cutthroats  and 
slaves,  who  came  with  swords  and  staves,  and  who  could  not  be  con- 
sidered as  the  representatives  of  law  and  order.  In  giving  Himself 
up  to  these  vile  men,  Jesus  turned  to  the  chief  priests,  and  to  the 
elders,  and  to  the  keepers  of  the  Temi^le,  and  said,  reproaching  them 
for  thus  treating  Him  as  an  outlaw  :  '  Why  1  have  you  come,  as  to  a 
robber,  with  swords,  and  staves,  to  apprehend  me  ?  I  was  daily 
with  you  in  the  Temple  teaching,  and  you  did  not  lay  hands  on  me. 
But  this  is  your  hour.  The  moment  is  come  for  the  power  of  dark- 
ness to  act.  All  this  is  done  that  the  scriptures  may  be  fulfilled.'  At 
that  moment  the  cohort,  and  the  tribune  who  conmianded  it,  as  well 
as  the  men,  who  had  been  brought  by  Judas,  seized  Jesus  and  bound 
Him  like  a  criminal  ;  at  which  sight  the  disciples  were  filled  with 
fear,  and  they  all  lied,  abandoning  their  Afaster. 

THE    TRIAL, 

"The  soldiers  brought  Jesus  to  the  house  of  Annas,  father-in-law 
to  ('alphas,  who  was  high-priest  that  year.  Although  Annas  was  the 
father-in-law  of  Caiphas,  he  had  neither  title  nor  right  to  interrogate 


268 


SEEKING   CHARGES. 


h    » 


,,  H  ■ 


Jesus.  It  was  one  more  irregularity  in  the  ])roceeclings,  to  bring  the 
Saviour  before  him,  as  he  was  not  invested  with  any  official  function. 
But  Annas  was  a  man  well  versed  in  i)u.siness,  and  they  no  doubt 
brought  Jesus  to  him,  in  order  to  profit  by  his  liglus  and  experience, 
that  he  might  ([uostion  llim,  and  tiien  indicate  the  means  to  be 
adopted  in  order  to  condenm  Him,  without  having  their  proceedings 
appear  in  too  flagrant  opposition  to  the  law. 

"Peter  and  John  were  the  only  apostles  who  had  the  courage  to 
follow  their  Master.  John,  who  was  known  to  the  Pontiff,  came  into 
the  yard  ;  bufc  Peter  remained  at  the  gate.  John  looked  for  him, 
and  begged  the  portress  to  let  him  pass.  They  were  warming  them- 
selves in  the  yard,  near  a  large  lire,  with  the  servants  and  satellites, 
who  had  arrested  Jesus,  when  the  servant,  who  watched  the  door,  ap- 
proached Peter,  and  after  looking  at  Him  attentively,  said  :  'Art  thou 
not  also  a  disciple  of  this  man  whom  they  have  just  arrested?  Thou 
wert  with  Jesus  of  Galilee,  it  seems  to  me  that  1  recognize  thee.' 
.  "  Peter,  disconcerted  by  this  question,  which  exposed  him  to  the 
insults  of  the  soldiers  who  surrounded  him,  denied  his  Master  before 
them  all,  saying :  '  Woman,  I  know  him  not,  neither  do  I  know 
what  thou  sayest.'  Peter  then  went  into  the  vestibule,  where  he 
heard  the  cock  crow ;  but  he  was  so  confused  that  he  did  not  iniiul 
it,  nor  did  he  recollecr,  in  that  moment,  the  prediction  that  Jesus 
had  made  a  (cw  moments  before,  that  '  before  the  cock  would  crow 
twice,  he  would  deny  him  three  times.'  During  this  time,  Annas 
was  interrogating  Jesus  about  his  disciples  and  his  doctrine.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Jewish  law,  he  should  have  made  known  to  him  the 
bill  of  indictment,  and  asked  him  if  he  were  guilty  or  not  guilty.  Put 
they  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  specifying  any  charge,  and,  at  the  very 
moment  that  they  were  arresting  Jesus,  they  were  still  engaged  seek- 
ing for  an  accusation  to  make  against  Him.  It  was  for  this  reason 
that  Annas  continued  to  put  to  him  captious  questions,  in  order  to 
ensnare  Him. 

"  Jesus  does  not  fail  to  make  him  understand  the  illegality  of  tiie 
proceeding,  and  He  said  to  Annas :  '  I  have  spoken  ojjenly  to  the 
world,  I  have  always  taught  in  the  synagogue  and  in  the  temi)le, 
whither  all  the  Jews  resort,  and  in  secret  I  have  spoken  nothing. 
iVhy  askest  thou  me  ?  Ask  them  who  have  heard  what  I  have  spoken 
unto  them  :  behold  they  know  what  things  I  have  said.'  This  was, 
in  fact,  the  only  course  to  follow ;  for,  according  to  the  law,  when 


AN   ILLKCAL  TRIAL. 


269 


any  one  was  accused  of  a  crime,  whatsoever  it  might  be,  he  was 
called  before  the  tril)unal  of  the  elders,  and  they  read  to  him  the 
charges  brought  against  him  ;  then  they  made  the  witnesses  appear 
before  him,  who  were  to  certify  to  the  identity  of  his  person,  and  to 
depose  as  to  the  montli,  the  day,  the  hour,  and  the  circumstances  of 
the  crime. 

"  Jesus  asked  Annas  to  be  treated  according  to  the  law ;  but  the 
instant  he  expressed  this  legitimate  wish,  one  of  the  officers  who 
were  there  took  His  demand  for  an  insult  to  the  Pontiff,  and  he  gave 
Jesus  a  blow,  saying:  'Answcrest  thou  the  high-priest  so?'  The 
right  of  self  defence,  which  was  always  sacred  among  civilized  people, 
and  which  the  Mosaic  law  had  surrounded  by  so  many  guarantees,  was 
then  most  wantonly  violated.  JUit  Jesus  did  not  utter  a  complaint : 
He  merely  said  to  the  wretch  who  had  committed  this  brutality  :  '  If 
I  have  spoken  evil,  give  testimony  of  the  evil ;  but  if  well,  why 
strikest  thou  me  ? ' 

"It  was  impossible  to  answer  this  dilemma,  and  Annas,  finding  him- 
self embarrassed,  sent  Jesus  bound  before  Caii)has,  at  whose  house 
the  elders,  the  priests,  and  the  doctors  of  the  law  were  assembled. 
Regularly  this  high-priest  could  not  be  judge.  He  had  made  him- 
self the  accuser  of  Jesus,  and,  before  he  had  seen  Him,  he  had  judged 
Him  worthy  of  death,  because  it  was  he  who  had  said,  in  open  coun- 
cil, to  his  colleagues,  that  it  was  well  that  one  should  die  for  all,  and, 
by  one,  he  meant  Jesus.  The  law  also  prohibited,  under  pain  of 
annulling  the  suit,  proceeding  with  a  trial  at  night,  or  condenining 
any  one  on  a  festival  day.  It  was  not  only  night,  but  they  were  in 
the  midst  of  the  festivity  of  the  Passover,  which  was  the  greatest  so- 
lemnity of  the  year  among  the  Jews ;  therefore  they  should  have  de- 
ferred judgment.  But  the  enemies  of  Jesus  wished  a  prompt  con- 
demnation and  an  immediate  execution.  They  took  care  not  to  stop 
at  these  questions  of  technicality,  for  fear  -they  should  not  succeed  in 
their  designs.  However,  Jesus  having  demanded  witnesses,  it  was 
impossible  to  refuse  Him  the  application  of  this  juridical  form,  if  in- 
deed they  wished  to  have  the  case  bear  any  semblance  of  justice. 
The  chief  priests,  the  elders,  and  all  the  members  of  the  council, 
sought  for  false  witnesses,  whose  depositions  would  furnish  them  a 
pretext  to  condemn  Him  to  death.  It  was  not  difficult  for  them  to 
find  a  crowd  of  miscreants,  willing  to  depose  against  Jesus.  These 
jjrobably  repeated  all  the  falsehoods  that  were  suggested  to  them ; 


p, 


270 


FALSE   WITNESSES. 


but,  whether,  in  the  precipitation  with  which  the  business  was  con- 
ducted, they  iuul  not  taken  time  to  conii)are  and  arrange  their  testi. 
mony,  or  their  gioss  ignorance  must  have  prevented  them  irom  un- 
derstanding what  they  had  been  directed  to  say,  their  testimonies 
were  contradictory.  The  Jewish  leaders  began  to  despair  of  thuir 
case,  when  they  brought  two  false  witnesses  who  declared  that  tlicy 
had  heard  Jesus  say,  '  1  can  destroy  the  Temple  of  God,  and  build 
it  in  three  days,'  and  again,  '  I  will  destroy  this  Temple  built  by 
the  hands  of  men,  and  I  will  build  another  in  three  days,  which  will 
not  be  made  by  the  hands  of  man.'  In  reality  Jesus  had  not  said 
these  words.  He  only  said,  '  Destroy  this  temple,  and  I  will  build 
it  in  three  days; '  which  signified,  Supposing  you  destroy  this  temple, 
I  will  build  it  again  in  three  days  :  besides,  l-Te  did  not  designate,  by 
these  words,  the  Tem|)le  of  Jerusalem  ;  He  had  reference,  according 
to  the  remark  of  St.  John,  to  His  own  body,  and,  to  make  the  Jews 
understand  that  He  did  not  refer  to  the  temple  of  Jerusalem,  He 
added  of  His  own  accord,  '  I  will  build  another  which  will  not  be 
made  by  the  hands  of  man.'  In  any  case,  if  He  had  even  wished  to 
speak  of  the  Temple  of  Jerusolem,  there  was  nothing  therein  that 
could  have  justified  his  condemnation  to  death.  They  could  have 
accused  Him  of  being  presumptuous,  but  there  was  nothing  in  His 
words  that  could  be  construed  into  sedition  or  sacrilege.  The  high- 
priest,  feeling  that  there  was  nothing  conclusive  in  these  testimonies, 
arose  and  began  to  question  Jesus,  saying:  'Answerest  thou  nothing 
to  the  things  that  are  laid  to  thy  charge  by  these  men  ? '  These 
depositions  refuted  themselves.     There  was  no  need  of  Jesus  answer 


ingi 


so  he  remained  silent. 


"The  high-priest,  the  elders,  and  the  doctors,  who  knew  that  Jesus 
had  often  proclaimed  His  divinity  before  the  whole  world,  cross- 
questioned  him  on  this  point,  thinking  that  he  might  give  testimony 
of  the  truths  and  that  that  would  give  them  an  opportunity  of  accus- 
ing him  of  blasphemy.  So  they  began  to  urge  him  with  questions, 
saying:  'If  thou  be  the  Christ,  tell  us.'  He  said  to  them:  'if  I 
shall  tell  you,  you  will  not  believe  me ;  and  if  I  shall  also  ask  you, 
you  will  not  answer  me,  nor  let  me  go.  But  hereafter  the  son  of 
man  shall  be  sitting  on  the  right  liandof  the  power  of  God.'  '  Then,' 
exclaimed  they  all,  'art  thou  the  son  of  God?'  And  the  high- 
priest,  assuming  a  tone  of  authority,  said  to  him  :  '  I  adjure  thee,  by 
the  living  God,  that  thou  tell  us  if  thou  be  the  Christ,  the  son  of  the 


CONDEMNED    lO   DIE. 


271 


blessed  and  eternal  Cod?'  Jesus  answered:  'Thou  hast  said  it: 
I  am.  Nevertheless,  I  !:.\v  to  you,  that  you  shall  see  the  son  of  man, 
who  to-day  is  so  enfeebled  and  humbled, — hereafter  you  shall  see 
hiui,  sitting  on  the  right  hand  of  the  power  of  God,  and  coming  in 
the  clouds  of  Heaven.' 

"  Then  the  high-priest  rent  his  garments,  saying  :  '  He  hath  bias- 
nheuied  ;  what  further  need  have  we  of  witnesses  ?  Behold,  now  you 
have  heard  the  blasphemy,  what  think  you  ?  '  They  all  answered  : 
"  He  deserves  death  ;  we  have  no  need  of  other  witnesses,  we  have 
heard  him  ourselves  ; '  and  they  all  condemned  him  to  die. 

"  This  judgment  of  Caiphas  was  the  judgment  of  a  violent,  pas- 
sionate man,  such  as  Josei)hus  has  i)ainted  him  to  be.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  impose  ui)on  the  accused  an  immoral  oath,  which  put  him 
in  the  alternative  of  either  perjuring  himself  or  accusing  himself,  a 
thing  that  is  contrary  to  all  the  rules  of  jurisprudence.  When  Jesus 
has  spoken,  he  pretends  that  there  is  no  need  of  further  witnesses, 
although  the  law  exacts  them.  He  does  not  wish  any  further  in- 
quiry, he  declares  that  sufficient  information  has  been  given  in  the 
case,  and,  instead  of  remaining  calm,  as  a  judge  should  be,  gets  into 
a  rage,  tears  his  garments,  and  in  the  midst  of  these  transports,  he  is 
the  first  to  pronounce  pain  of  death  against  the  accused,  wishing  to 
draw,  by  his  example,  the  suffrages  of  the  other  judges.  The  fury  of 
the  high-priest  is  communicated  to  the  assistants,  and  this  iniquitous 
sentence  is  followed  by  the  most  barbarous  violence. 

"Jesus  had  remained  bound  while  they  interrogated  him:  they  not 
only  took  away  his  right  of  liberty  of  defence,  but  tliey  even  deprived 
him  of  his  physical  liberty.  He  was  treated  like  a  felon,  even  before 
they  heard  him.  When  he  had  spoken,  and  the  high-priest  had  pro- 
nounced him  guilty  of  death,  those  who  were  present  began  to  cover 
him  with  outrages.  They  spat  in  his  face,  and  those  who  had  hold  of 
him  struck  him  with  their  fists  and  mocked  him.  The  servants  band- 
aged his  eyes  and  buffeted  him,  and  others  struck  his  face  with  the 
palms  of  their  hands,  saying  to  him  as  they  did  so  :  '  Christ,  prophesy 
unto  us,  who  is  he  that  struck  thee ; '  and  they  showered  upon  him  every 
species  of  blasphemy.    Jesus  submitted  in  silence  to  all  these  outrages. 


THE    DENIAL. 


"  During  this  time  Peter  was  sitting  outside  in  the  yard.   When  they 
had  led  Jesus  from  the  house  of  Annas,  he  had  followed  him  timidly 


272 


Pi:  FER'S   repentance. 


^11  111-; 


at  a  distance,  until  he  reached  the  house  of  the  higli-priest.  After  he 
entered  he  mixed  in  with  the  servants,  and  sat  down  near  the  tire 
which  was  hghted  in  the  midst  of  them.  One  of  the  servants  of  Cai- 
phas  seeing  him,  pointed  him  out  to  those  that  were  present,  say- 
ing:  '  He  too  was  with  Jesus  of  Nazareth.'  The  cowardice  of  the 
chief  of  the  apostles  increasing  with  his  danger,  he  replied  :  '  I  know 
not  the  man,  I  know  not  what  thou  sayest.'  Another  maid,  in  the 
same  mstant,  asked  him  the  same  question  ;  but  he  pretended  not  to 
hear  her,  and  remained  silent.  Some  of  the  soldiers,  having  joined 
them,  ask  him  :  'Art  thou  not  among  the  disci[)les  of  Jesus?'  ]3iit 
he  denied  it  with  an  oath.  About  an  hoiu"  passed  since  the  second 
tinie  he  had  denied  him,  when  a  servant  of  the  high-priest  declared 
that  Peter  was  a  disciple  of  Jesus.  '  He  was  certainly  witli  him.' 
said  he,  'because  he  is  a  Galilean.'  '  Afy  friends,'  replied  Peter, 
'  I  know  not  what  thou  sayest.'  '  What,'  replied  the  servant,  '  did  I 
not  see  thee  with  him  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  ?'  Upon  which 
the  other  servants  joined  in  and  said  :  '  Surely,  thou  canst  not  deny 
it ;  thou  art  also  one  of  them  ;  thou  art  a  Galilean,  thy  accent  be- 
trays thee.'  The  weak  apostle,  overcome  by  all  this  testimony, 
broke  out  into  imprecations,  like  all  those  who  have  nothing  better 
to  answer,  and  began  to  curse  and  swear  that  he  knew  not  the  man  ; 
and  immediately  the  cock  crew.  At  that  moment  they  were  leading 
Jesus  to  the  underground  prison  to  pass  the  night,  to  wait  for  the 
break  of  day,  when  they  intended  to  conduct  him  to  Pilate.  As  they 
led  Him  through  the  yard,  He  threw  a  glance  ujion  Peter.  Then 
Peter  remembered  the  words  that  his  good  Master  had  spoken  to 
him,  when  he  was  making  such  ardent  i)rotestations  of  devotion  and 
love  :  '  Peter,  before  the  cock  crows  twice,  thou  shalt  deny  me 
three  times.'  He  then  understood  how  great  was  his  fiiult,  and  he 
vent  out  and  wept  bitterly. 


THE    TRAITOR  S    DEATH. 

"  The  examhiation  of  Jesus  at  the  house  of  Caiphas  was  more  of  a 
preparatory  deliberation  than  it  was  a  fuial  judgment.  In  order  not 
to  rouse  the  people,  the  chief  priests  felt  that  they  nnist  give  the  sen- 
tence at  least  a  l(*gal  api)earance.  Until  now  nothing  had  ever  been 
more  irreirular  than  tlieir  proceedings. 

"  In  order  to  remedy  all  illegalities  they  brought  Jesus  out  of  the 
underground  prison  where  they  had  placed  him,  in  the  house  of  Cai- 


THE  Dl.SPAIR  OF  JUDAS. 


273 


phas,  so  that  he  might  appear,  at  tlie  break  of  day,  before  the  San- 
hedrim. Tliis  was  done  so  as  to  silence  any  objection?  that  the  mul- 
titude might  make  against  the  irregularities  of  the  previous  judgment. 
Before  the  Sanhedrim  there  was  neither  hearing  of  witnesses  nor  dis- 
cussion. They  accepted  all  that  had  already  been  done,  but  they 
gave  it  a  legal  appearance.  Consequently  their  proceedings  remained 
stained  with  all  the  irregularities  and  defects  with  which  their  con- 
duct could  be  charged  from  the  commencement.  When  the  morning 
was  sufficiently  advanced,  Jesus  was  brouglit,  bound,  and  delivered  up 
to  Pilate,  that  the  Roman  governor  might  ratify  the  sentence  of  death 
which  the  Sanhedrim  had  just  pronounced  against  him.  Judas,  who 
had  betrayed  his  master,  having  heard  that  he  was  sentenced  to 
death,  repented  of  the  crime  he  had  committed,  took  the  thirty  pieces 
of  silver  which  he  had  received  as  the  price  of  his  treason,  and 
brought  them  to  the  chief  priests  and  the  ancients,  who  had  given 
them  to  him,  saying,  as  he  offered  them  :  '  I  have  sinned,  in  betray- 
ing innocent  blood;'  but  they  said:  '  IV/iat  is  that  to  lis  ^  That 
concerns  thee.' 

"That  scene,  no  doubt,  passed  in  one  of  the  halls  adjoining  the 
council  chamber  where  the  chief-priests  assembled  before  the  even- 
ing and  morning  sacrifice,  because  the  gospel  adds  that,  after  saying 
this,  Judas  threw  the  pieces  of  silver  into  the  Temple.  He  then  de- 
parted, and  hung  himself  in  despair.  This  miserable  creature  then 
understood  the  enormity  of  his  crime,  but  he  was  not  happy  enough 
to  reflect,  at  the  same  time,  on  the  infinite  mercy  of  God,  and,  instead 
of  weeping  bitterly,  as  Peter  did,  and  obtaining  pardon  by  repentance, 
he  thought  that  there  was  no  i)ossible  salvation  for  him.  So  he 
crowned  his  career  of  avarice  and  treason  by  the  most  frightful  of 
crimes,  that  of  self-destruction.  The  chief-priests,  having  taken  the 
pieces  of  silver,  said :  '  It  is  not  lawful  to  put  them  into  the  alms-box, 
because  they  are  the  price  of  blood ;  and  after  they  had  consulted 
together,  they  bought  with  them  a  potter's  field,  to  be  used  as  a 
hurying-place  for  strangers.'  For  this  cause  that  field  was  called 
Hiceldama,  that  is,  'the  field  of  blood,'  even  to  this  day,  says  the 
scripture. 

mr.ATR. 

"Since  the  dethronement  by  the  Roman  Senate  of  Archclaus,  one 
of  the   sons  of   Herod  »he  (Jreat,   Judea   had  been  anne.xed  to  the 
12* 


%\ 


274 


THE  PHARISEES    SCRUPLE. 


I, 


province  of  Syria,  and  placed  under  the  direction  of  an  administrator, 
who  had  the  title  of  |)rocurator  of  Cicsar.  This  administrator's  prin- 
cipal busiliess  was  to  levy  taxes  and  to  give  judgment  in  liscal 
causes,  but,  occasionally,  the  Romans  granted  to  him  the  right  of 
examining  and  judging  capital  cases.  Such  was  the  power  of  Pontius 
Pilate,  appointed  by  Tiberius  administrator  of  Judea,  in  the  i)lace  of 
the  governor  of  Syria,  who  was  at  the  head  of  the  whole  Roman 
province,  with  the  title  of  president  (pra.'ses).  ]]y  the  right  of  con- 
quest, the  power  of  life  and  death  had  i)asscd  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  Jews  into  those  of  the  Romans.  They  usually  kept  to  themselves 
this  right  in  all  the  countries  that  they  conquered,  because  it  gave 
them  an  opportunity  of  extending  an  ecpial  protection  over  all  tlicir 
subjects,  and  it  also  helped  them  to  repress  at  once  any  revolt,  on 
the  part  of  those  who  felt  impatient  of  tiie  Roman  yoke.  It  was  for 
this  reason  that,  after  the  Sanhedrim  had  given  a  verdict  against 
Jesus,  it  was  still  necessary  to  bring  him  before  Pontius  Pilate,  the 
Roman  governor,  in  order  to  have  him  ratify  tiie  sentence  :  and  thus 
was  the  prediction  made  by  Christ  when  he  left  Kphrem  fulfilled : 
'  Behold,  we  go  up  to  Jerusalem,  where  the  Son  of  Alan  shall  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  chief-priests,  and  the  doctors  of  the  law,  who 
will  condemn  Him  to  death,  and  will  deliver  him  over  to  the  gen- 
tiles.' 

•'  Jesus  was  brought  into  the  judgment-hall  ;  but  the  chief-priests, 
and  the  ancients  of  the  people,  and  the  other  Jews  were  scru[)ulous 
about  going  in,  because  they  imagined  that  they  ought  not  to  put 
their  foot  into  the  house  of  a  pagan  on  a  feast-day,  lest  it  should 
defile  them.  This  prohibition  was  not  to  be  found  in  their  knv  ;  but 
it  formed  a  part  of  the  superstitious  traditions  of  the  Pharisees,  who 
wished  to  appear  too  conscientious  to  even  place  themselves  above 
such  a  tritle,  while  it  did  not  cost  them  anything  to  shed  innocent 
blood.  Pilate,  doubtless,  had  known  for  a  long  lime  how  jealous 
tne  priests  and  doctors  were  of  Jesus,  and  would  have  preferi'ed  not 
to  interfere  in  this  matter.  He  considered  it  a  religious  cpuirrel, 
of  no  importance  to  the  Roman  empire,  whose  interests  alone 
touched  him.  He  went  out  of  the  judgnient-hall,  accordingly,  and 
said  to  the  Jews:  'What  accusation  bring  you  against  this  man?' 
They  answered  him  :  'If  he  were  not  a  malefactor,  we  would  not 
iiave  delivered  him  up  to  thee.'  I'ilate  replied:  'If  you  believe 
that  he  is  guilty  of  death,  take  him,  and  judge  him  according  to  your 


■Ha 


A  NEW  CHARGE. 


275 


law.'  But  the  Jews  cried  out:  'Thou  knowest  well  that  it  is  not 
lawful  for  us  to  put  any  man  to  death  ;  that  right  is  reserved  to 
thee.' 

"  Power  over  life  and  death  being  the  attribute  and  ])rincii)al  sign  of 
sovereignty,  the  Jews,  in  making  this  avowal,  acknowledged  that  the 
sceptre  had  gone  out  of  their  hands,  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and 
that  the  time  marked  by  Jacob  for  the  appearance  of  the  Messiah, 
had  come.  Moreover,  if  Christ  were  judged  by  the  Mosaic  law, 
He  would  have  been  stoned,  whether  He  had  been  condemned  as  a 
false  prophet  or  found  guilty  of  blasphemy.  In  order  that  He  should 
be  condemned  to  die  on  the  cross,  as  the  prophets  had  predicted,  it 
was  necessary  that  He  should  be  delivered  to  the  gentiles.  When 
tliey  brought  Jesus  before  Pilate,  the  Jev/s  changed  completely  their 
system  of  accusation.  They  no  longer  accused  him  of  blasphemy,  as 
they  had  done  up  to  that  moment ;  because  that  i.c,cusation  would 
not  have  i)roduced  any  impression  on  Pilate,  who  was  a  i)agan.  But 
tliey  substituted  for  this  reproach  a  new  indictment,  a  political  accusa- 
tion, a  crime  against  the  state.  'We  have  found  this  man,'  they 
said,  '  perverting  our  nation,  and  forbidding  the  people  to  pay  tribute 
to  Cicsar,  and  claiming  that  he  is  Christ  the  king.' 

"Here  was  an  abominable  calumny  ;  for  the  Jews  had  gone  to  Him 
themselves,  to  ask  Him  if  they  ought  to  pay  tribute  to  Ccesar,  and 
they  knew  that  He  had  asked  of  them  a  piece  of  money,  and,  while 
looking  on  the  effigy  of  C;esar,  He  had  said,  befori>  the  people  : 
'Render  unto  C;esar  the  things  which  are  C;esar's,  and  unto  God 
the  things  that  are  God's.'  Far  from  agitating  the  nation,  and  from 
perverting  it  by  inspiring  it  with  seditions  sentiments.  He  had  sub- 
mitted to  all  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  country,  and  had  also 
taught  His  disciples  to  observe  those  laws  with  care,  whenever  there 
was  nothing  in  their  fulfilment  which  was  contrary  to  the  law  of  God  ; 
and  by  word  and  example  He  had  taught  them  to  respect  in  all 
things  the  authority  of  the  magistrates. 

"  When  tiie  Jews  accused  Jesus  of  arrogating  to  himself  the  title  of 
king,  they  charged  Him  with  a  political  crime,  to  which  the  Roman 
governor  could  not  remain  indifferent  without  compromising  himself. 
J'or  that  reason  Pilate  was  obliged  to  take  uj)  the  accusation  seriously. 
He  re-entered  the  judgment-hall  and  had  Jesus  brought  before  him. 
'Art  thou  the  king  of  the  Jews?'  As  this  was  a  new  question,  en- 
tirely different  from   those  which  had  been  addressed  to  Him  at  the 


'4! 


Ml  I 


I' 


I 


276 


PILATE  S   QUESTION. 


house  of  Annas  and  Caiphas,  Jesus  replied  :  '  Sayest  thou  this  thing 
of  thyself,  or  have  others  told  it  to  thee  of  me?'  Pilate  answered  : 
'Am  I  a  Jew?  Thy  own  nation,  and  the  chief-priests  have  delivered 
thee  up  to  nie  :  what  hast  thou  done  ?  ' 

"Jesus  wishing  to  make  Pilate  understand  that  the  whole  of  this  new 
accusation  rested  on  a  false  interpretation  of  the  word  king,  and  that 
the  royalty  which  He  had  attributed  to  Himself,  in  saying  that  He 
was  '  king  of  the  Jews,'  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  Roman 
empire,  said  to  him  :  '  My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.  If  my 
kingdom  were  of  this  world,  my  servants  would  certainly  strive  that 
I  should  not  be  delivered  to  the  Jews  ;  but  as  no  one  fights  for  me, 
it  is  evident  that  my  kingdom  is  not  here  below.' 

"  Jesus  having  declared  that  the  royalty  which  He  attributed  to  Him- 
self was  purely  spiritual,  it  was  evident  that  His  justification  was  com- 
plete, as  the  Roman  law  had  nothing  to  do  with  a  power  which  was 
not  of  this  world,  and  which  made  a  profession  not  to  interfere  with 
the  cm])ire  of  the  Ci^sars.  Nevertheless,  in  order  to  understand 
His  thoughts  more  clearly,  Pilate  insisted:  'Thou  art  then  a  king?' 
Jesus  answered:  'Thou  sayest  that  I  am  a  king.  For  this  was  [ 
born,  and  for  this  came  I  into  the  world,  that  1  should  give  testimony 
to  the  truth.  Every  one  that  is  of  the  truth  heareth  my  voice.' 
Pilate  asked  him:  '\Vhat  is  truth?'  The  question  then  ceasing  to 
be  a  juridical  one,  and  having  taken  a  doctrinal  character,  the 
Roman  governor,  without  waiting  for  Jesus  to  reply,  went  out  of  the 
judgment-hall  again  to  the  Jews,  and  said  to  them  :  '  I  find  no  cause 
of  condemnation  in  this  man.' 

"When  the  Jews  heard  Pilate  pronounce  these  words,  they  feared 
that  their  victim  would  escape  them.  The  chief-priests  and  tlie  an- 
cients of  the  people  began  to  overwhelm  him  with  accusations.  This 
fury  alone  proved  that  they  acted  only  from  pa.ssion  ;  but  before  a 
tribunal  it  is  not  sufficient  to  accuse,  one  must  prove  wliat  one  ad- 
vances. Jesus,  seeing  that  his  enemies  proved  nothing  that  they  said, 
let  them  contradict  themselves  without  making  the  least  reply.  This 
generosity  and  greatness  of  mind  astonished  Pilate  at  first,  and  he 
said  to  him  :  '  Dost  not  thou  hear  how  great  complaints  they  allege 
against  tliee  ?  Answerest  thou  nothing  ?  Beliold  in  how  many 
things  tliey  accuse  thee.'  Jesus,  seeing  that  he  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  judge  who  was  sufficiently  convinced  of  his  innocence,  but  wlio 
dared  not,  through  weakness,  acquit  him,  and  considering,  on  the 


A  TIME-SERVING  POLITICIAN. 


277 


Other  hand,  that  he  had  to  do  with  men  who  were  obstinately  deter- 
mined upon  his  death,  looked  upon  it  as  a  useless  thing,  to  under- 
take to  justify  himself.  But  the  chief-priests  became  more  earnest, 
and  they  cried  out :  *  He  stirreth  up  the  people,  teaching  throughout 
all  Judea,  beginning  from  Galilee  to  this  i^lace.'  Thus  the  whole 
crime  of  Jesus,  whom  they  had  at  tirst  accused  of  being  a  blasphemer 
and  a  disturber  of  the  peace,  reduces  itself  to  his  having  instructed 
and  enlightened  the  multitude,  and  attached  the  people  to  hi  m,  by 
preaching  to  them  a  consoling  doctrine,  and  to  his  unve;  ;ng  the 
pride  and  avarice  of  those  who  domineered  over  them.  This  was 
the  cause  of  the  spite  which  the  Pharisees  and  the  chief-priests  had 

aaainst  him.     But  Pilate  did  not  find  that  that  was  a  sufficient  reason 

....  • 

for  him  to  condemn  him  ;  his  position,  liowever,  was  embarrassing  ;  be 

wished  to  save  Jesus  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  not  willing  to  in- 
cur the  hatred  of  these  influential  men. 

FROM    HEROD    TO    PILATE 

"Among  the  clamors  of  the  Jews,  Pilate  heard  the  word  Galilee, 
and  that  word  brought  Avith  it  a  ray  of  light.  'Thou  art  from  Ciali- 
lee  ? '  said  he  to  Jesus  ;  and  upon  his  response  in  the  affirmative, 
Pilate  hastened  to  throw  ofll'  the  responsibility  of , the  case,  and  he 
sent  him  to  Herod  Antipas,  the  tetrarch  of  that  province. 

"  Herod  exercised,  by  the  consent  and  at  the  pleasure  of  Cassar, 
sovereign  authority  over  all  the  inhabitants  of  Galilee,  who  were 
mostly  composed  ol  Israelites  belonging  to  the  ten  tribes.  He  had 
the  right  of  judging  all  causes  between  his  subjects,  even  in  the 
capital  of  Judea,  when  he  was  there  in  person.  I'ilate  had  not  always 
acknowledged  this  right ;  for,  on  a  former  occasion,  during  another 
solemnity,  he  had  seized  and  condemned  several  Galileans,  without 
a|)i)rising  the  tetrarch,  which  had  caused  an  enmity  to  spring  u[) 
between  them.  But  in  the  case  of  Jesus,  Pilate  was  only  too  glad 
to  recognize  the  jurisdiction  of  Herod,  because  he  saw  an  opi)ortunity, 
by  doing  so,  of  getting  out  of  a  difficulty. 

"This  was  not  acting  courageously,  but  it  appeared  to  him  adroit 
conduct,  and  that  was  all  that  was  necessary  in  the  eyes  of  the  Ro- 
man governor.  Herod  was  enchanted  l)y  the  deference  of  Pilate. 
This  was  the  same  effeminate  and  voluptuous  prince,  who  had  not 
the  strength  to  hear  the  truth  from  the  mouth  of  John  the  Bai)tist, 
whom   he,   in  so  cowardly  a  manner,   sacrificed    to   his    pleasures. 


!  !.,i 


m 


278 


A  FREE-TIIINKING  TETRARCH. 


m  ^ 


From  the  monient  of  that  deed,  he  had  continued  to  lead  an  easy 
hcentious  Hfe,  atifecting  great  indifference  to  all  matters  concerning 
religion,  and  opposing  to  all  miraculous  events,  and  to  all  moral 
doctrines,  an  absolute  skepticism,  which  he  no  doubt  considered 
strength  of  mind.  Sephoris,  his  capital,  which  he  had  called  l.)io- 
c;csarea,  was  not  far  from  Nazareth ;  but  he  had  come  to  Jerusalem 
for  the  feast  of  the  passover.  He  had  often  heard  Jesus  si)oken  of, 
and  Jiad  heard  of  the  miracles  he  wrought,  and  he  also  knew  tlie 
great  influence  he  had  over  the  people.  For  a  long  time  he  hail 
wished  to  meet  Him,  as  he  desired  to  see  for  himself  some  of  the 
prodigies  which  people  attributed  to  him  the  power  of  working. 
Herod  was  overjoyed,  when  tliey  announced  to  him  chat  Jesus  was 
there  ;  •for  he  hoped  that  his  curiosity  would  be  satisfied.  But  Jesus 
did  not  employ  His  power  in  order  to  amuse  the  leisure  moments  of 
the  great  of  this  earth.  As  he  was  well  acquainted  with  Herod's 
disposition,  he  knew  that  the  i)rince  only  desired  to  see  a  prodigy 
that  he  might  contest  it,  and  that  he  would  not  profit  by  his  words. 
This  is  the  reason  he  remained  mute  before  him.  Herod  questioned 
him  in  vain,  and  tried  by  a  flow  of  words  to  draw  him  out  of  his 
silence ;  but  he  did  not  obtain  the  least  reply,  although  the  chief- 
priests  and  the  scribes  were  there  perpetually  repeating  their  accusa- 
tions,    Jesus  did  not  say  one  word  to  justify  Himself. 

"  Herod,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  derided  Jesus  and  treated  him 
like  an  idiot.  He  made  them  put  on  Him  a  white  garment,  which 
was  a  dress  that  fools  always  wore ;  and,  in  that  guise,  he  sent  Him 
back  to  Pilate.  The  result  of  this  event  was  a  reconciliation  between 
Herod  and  Pilate. 


THE    CHOICE. 

"While  they  were  leading  Jesus  to  Herod,  Pilate  informed  himself 
more  particularly  concerning  the  accused.  He  was  convinced  that 
it  was  only  through  envy  that  the  chief-priests  had  delivered  him  into 
his  hand,  and  that  all  their  complaints  were  merely  partisan  accusa- 
tions. What  is  more,  while  he  was  on  his  seat  in  the  tribunal,  his 
wife  sent  to  him,  saying  :  'Have  thou  nothing  to  do  with  that  just 
man,  for  I  have  suffered  many  things  this  day  in  a  dream  because  of 
him.' 

"  These  words  made  a  profound  impression  on  Pilate,  because  the 
Romans  in  general  were  very  superstitious,  and  attached  a  great 


to  lead  an  easy 
ters  concerning 
-1  to  all  moral 
ibt   considered 
ad  called  ])io- 
"  to  Jerusalem 
sus  spoken  of, 
also  knew  the 
g  time  he  hml 
elf  some  of  the 
■r  of  working, 
diat  Jesus  was 
ed.     But  Jesus 
re  moments  of 
1  with  Herod's 
)  see  a  prodigy 
by  his  words, 
rod  questioned 
lini  out  of  his 
JUgh   the  chief, 
g  their  accusa- 

nd  treated  him 
jarment,  which 
;,  he  sent  Him 
iation  between 


:)rmed  himself 
onvinced  that 
'ered  him  into 
itisan  accusa- 
;  tribunal,  his 
nth  that  just 
n  because  of 

,  because  the 
:hed  a  great 


SiCOURGiNG    THE    INNOCENT. 


279 


importance  to  dreams,  particularly  the  dreams  of  women.  Pilate 
was  also  struck  witli  the  noble  and  assured  countenance  of  Jesus. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  was  deeply  troubled  when  Herod  sent 
Him  back  to  him.  Calling  together  the  chief  priests  and  the  magis- 
trates, and  the  people,  he  said  to  them  :  '  Vou  have  presented  unto 
me  this  man  as  one  who  perverted  the  people,  and  behold  I  have 
examined  him  before  you,  and  1  find  no  cause  in  him  in  those  things 
wherein  you  accuse  him.  No,  nor  did  Herod  either  deem  him 
guilty  ;  for  I  sent  you  to  him,  and  behold  nothing  worthy  of  death  is 
found  against  him.  1  will  chastise  him,  therefore,  and  release 
him.' 

"  This  judgment  was  not  very  logical.  Pilate  proclaimed  Jesus 
innocent,  and  he  concludes  that  he  will  send  him  away,  rt/^v  /un'hig 
chastised  Him.  This  punishment  was  only  a  concession  which  he 
made  to  the  delirious  multitude,  hoping  thereby  to  calm  its  fury. 
But  the  expedient  not  succeeding,  he  devised  another. 

"  The  Roman  governor  was  obliged  to  deliver,  during  the  feast  of 
the  passover,  the  i)risoner  whom  the  people  might  demand.  This 
was  one  of  the  conditions  that  the  Jews  hod  made  when  they  were 
subjected  to  the  Romans.  They  wished  by  it  to  commemorate  the 
deliverance  of  Israel  and  their  departure  from  Egypt.  The  pro- 
curator of  Caesar  had  yielded  to  their  wishes,  and  granted  that, 
during  the  j'assover,  a  prisoner  should  be  delivered  to  them  who  was 
condennied  to  death.  Pilq.te  thought  this  conjuncture  a  favorable 
one  to  ai)ply  to  Jesus  the  benefit  of  the  law.  There  was  in  the 
prison  a  notorious  robber  named  Barabbas.  He  had  been  arrested 
and  condemned  for  sedition  and  murder.  The  people  having  pre- 
sented themselves  to  the  governor  to  ask  of  him  the  favor  that  was 
accorded  to  them  each  year,  Pilate  said  to  them:  'In  truth  it 
is  the  custom  that  I  deliver  unto  you  a  criminal  each  year,  at  the 
feast  of  the  passover.  Which  shall  1  deliver  to  you,  Parabbas  or 
Jesus,  who  is  called  Christ  ? '  He  knew  that  Jesus  was  detested  by 
the  chief-priests  and  the  jn'incipal  personages  of  the  nation,  but  that 
He  was  beloved  by  the  people.  Put  Parabbas,  on  the  contrary,  was 
a  robber,  the  terror  of  the  country,  whose  release  no  one  ought  to 
desire.  In  ]noposing  to  the  people  the  choice  between  Jesus  and 
this  miscreant,  Pilate  thought  that  they  would  not  hesitate  to  pro- 
nounce in  favor  of  their  Christ ;  but  he  did  not  count  upon  the  influ- 
ence that  the  enemies  of  Jesus  exercised  over  the  people.     The  chief- 


jM 


ii 


IM 


I 


>«  < 


1:    ■■ 


i'i 


I 


280 


RELEASING  THE   GUILTY. 


priests  and  the  ancients  of  the  people  persuaded  the  mnllitiule  to 
ask  for  Uarabbas,  and  to  demand  the  death  of  Jesus. 

'*  That  multitude  of  men  Vtithout  any  profession,  being  no  doubt 
seduced  by  the  brilliant  promises  that  were  made  to  them  by  the 
chief-priests,  began  to  cry  out  that  he  should  deliver  Barabbas. 
Pilate  could  hardly  believe  what  he  heard,  and  '.  e  put  the  question  to 
them  again  :  '  JJehold,  which  of  the  two  do  you  wish  me  to  deliver 
to  you  ? '  And  they  all  answered  :  '  Barabbas  :  deliver  Barabbas 
to  us,  and  put  the  other  to  death.' 

"  It  was  for  Jesus  the  height  of  ignominy  to  see  Himself  compared 
with  a  robber,  and  to  hear  the  people  prefer  that  wretch  to  Him. 
Pilate,  beside  himself,  cried  out :  '  What  shall  I  do  with  Jesus  that 
is  called  Christ  ?  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  with  him  who  is 
called  King  of  the  Jews?'  The  populace  redoubled  their  clamors, 
and  cried  out :  "  Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! '  The  governor  then 
said  to  them,  for  the  third  time:  MVhy,  what  evil  hath  he  done? 
I  find  that  he  has  done  nothing  worthy  of  death.  I  will  scourge  him 
and  then  send  him  away.' 

"  Pilate,  who  desired  to  save  Jesus,  returned  to  his  first  plan  of 
escape^  which  was  to  make  a  concession  to  the  people,  by  intlicting 
upon  the  accused  some  punishment,  after  which  he  would  set  him  at 
liberty.  But  the  people  cried  out  the  more  :  '  Crucify  him  !  crucify 
him ! ' 

* 

BEHOLD   TFIE    MAN  ! 

**  Pilate  then  took  Jesus  and  ordered  Him  to  be  scourged.  This 
torture,  which  generally  preceded  the  crucitixion  among  the  Romans, 
was  intensely  cruel.  They  struck  the  sufferer  with  a  whip,  formed 
of  several  straps  of  leather,  at  the  end  of  which  were  attached  small 
pieces  of  lead  or  iron.  To  increase  die  sufferings  of  the  unfortunate 
man  whom  they  forced  to  undergo  this  torture,  they  obliged  him  to 
present  himself  naked  to  the  waist :  liis  body  was  bent,  and  his  hands 
were  fastened  to  a  ring  in  a  stone  column,  about  half  a  yard  in  height. 
Jesus,  in  this  position,  let  them  tear  and  mutilate  His  body,  without 
making  the  least  complaint.  This  barbarous  punishment,  which  they 
inflicted  on  the  greater  number  of  criminals,  was  not  sufticient  to 
satisfy  the  hatred  of  the  enemies  of  Jesus.  They  wished  for  him  an 
exceptional  torture,  and  they  added  to  his  sufferings  the  most  revolt- 
ing ignominies.     Pilate's  soldiers  took  Him,  and  led  Him  into  the 


A  PROPHETIC    HISTORY. 


281 


le  miiliitiule  to 


yard  attached  to  the  judgment-hall,  and,  as  they  knew  that  He  was 
accust'd  of  making  Himself  a  king,  they  devised  among  themselves 
Ikuv  to  make  of  Him  a  tlieatrical  king,  so  as  to  overwhelm  Him  with 
outiaLje  and  confusion.  'l"he  wiiole  cohort  were  assembled  there. 
They  took  off  His  garments,  and  dressed  Him  in  a  puri)le  robe,  and 
plaiting  a  crown  of  thorns,  they  put  it  upon  His  head,  and  in  His 
right  hand  they  placed  a  reed,  in  the  place  of  a  scejitre.  Then,  turn- 
ing to  deride  His  royalty,  they  knelt  down  in  His  presence,  and, 
while  railing  and  blaspheming,  they  mockingly  cried  out :  '  Hail, 
King  of  the  Jews!'  Then  they  slapped  His  face,  and  taking  the 
reed  which  He  held  in  His  hand,  they  struck  Him  with  it,  and  pressed 
down  the  crown  of  thorns,  which  they  had  jilaced  on  His  head.  Then 
spitting  in  His  face,  they  prostrated  themselves  again  on  the  ground, 
pretending  to  adore  Him. 

"  rilate  witnessed  all  these  atrocities,.  His  cowardice  tolerated  them, 
in  spite  of  the  remorse  of  his  conscience.  He  hojjed  that  the  people, 
having  surfeited,  on  the  innocent  accused,  their  brutal  anger,  would 
be  satisfied  to  let  Jesus  go.  He  left  the  judgment-hall,  and  said  to 
the  Jews:  'Jiehold,  I  bring  forth  Jesus  unto  you,  that  you  may  know 
that  I  find  no  fault  in  Him.'  Jesus  then  came  forth,  wearing  the 
purple  garment,  and  bearing  the  crown  of  thorns.  Pilate,  presenting 
Him  to  the  people,  enrobed  with  these  insignia  of  derisive  royalty, 
said:  'Bkhoi.d  the  Man,'  It  was,  in  flict,  the  Man  of  Sorrows, 
such  as  the  prophet  Isaiah  had  seen  in  the  future,  when  he  cried  out: 
'  Vcs,  we  have  seen  Him  ;  but  He  could  no  longer  be  recognized. 
We  have  asked  ourselves,  standing  before  Him,  if  He  was  really  the 
Man  of  the  right  hand  of  (lod,  the  Son  of  Man,  in  whom  the  eternal 
Father  had  placed  all  His  pleasure.  We  looked  at  Him,  and  He  ap- 
peared despised,  and  the  most  abject  of  men,  a  Man  of  Sorrows  and 
acquainted  with  infirmity.  We  turned  our  eyes  away,  so  as  not  to 
see  Him.  Surely  He  hath  borne  our  infirmities,  and  carried  our 
sorrows.  And  we  have  thought  Him  as  it  were  a  leper,  and  as  one 
struck  by  (lod  and  afflicted.  But  He  was  wounded  for  our  iniqui- 
ties: He  was  bruised  for  our  sins:  the  chastisement  of  our  peace  was 
upon  Him,  and  by  His  bruises  we  are  healed.' 

*'  If  there  was  one  sad  but  sublime  moment  in  the  life  and  passion  of 
(he  Man-(jod,  it  was  when  the  Roman  gi)vcrnor  presents  Him  to  the 
uniltitude,  covered  with  wounds  and  blood,  with  these  words,  ^Behold 
the  ManT     Ah !  yes  :  behold  our  model  and  our  consolation ! 


■?! 


10 


; 


282 


A   COWARDLY   GOVERNOR. 


THE    SENTENCE. 


"  When  Jesus  appeared,  wearing  His  crown  of  thorns,  and  covered 
with  spittle  and  blood,  and  looking  as  though  ignominy  and  suffering 
had  been  contending  for  the  mastery,  the  chief-priests  and  their  ser- 
vants were  not  moved  to  compassion  as  Pilate  had  hoped  ;  but  they 
began  to  cry  out  more  earnestly  than  before  :  *  Crucify  him  !  crucify 
him  ! '  Pilate  said  :  '  Take  him  you,  and  crucify  him  ;  for  I  find  no  harm 
in  him.'  The  Jews  answered  him  :  '  We  have  a  law,  and,  acccirding  to 
that  law,  he  ought  to  die  ;  because  he  made  himself  the  Son  of  dod.' 
When  Pilate  heard  these  words,  he  feared  the  more  to  condemn  Him  : 
as  he  was  a  pagan,  i)erhaps  he  feared  that  Jesus  was  the  son  of 
some  God  unknown  to  him,  and  that,  by  condemning  Him,  he  might 
excite  the  anger  of  Heaven  against  himself.  He  entered  into  the 
hall  again  to  ask  Jesus  from  whence  He  was,  and  what  was  His  origin, 
doubtless  wishing  to  discover  what  divinity  he  was  in  relation  with , 
but  there  was  such  a  distance  between  the  Christian  doctrine  and  the 
superstitions  of  the  pagans,  that  Jesus  gave  him  no  answer.  Pilate 
therefore  said  to  liim  :  '  Speakest  thou  not  to  me  r  Knowest  tiiou 
not  that  I  have  power  to  crucify  thee,  and  I  have  power  to  release 
thee  ?  '  These  words  were  more  than  enough  to  intimidate  an  ordinary 
criminal ;  but  Jesus  rei)lied  :  "  Thou  couldest  have  no  power  at  all  over 
nie,  unless  it  were  given  thee  from  above.  Thou  committest  a  fault ; 
but  the  traitor  who  hath  delivered  me  to  thee,  hath  committed  a 
greater  one.'  Pilate  sought  to  release  Him.  The  words  of  Christ  must 
have  excited  remorse  in  his  conscience,  which  must  have  reproached 
him  for  his  cowardly  prevarications.  He  knew  that  Jesus  was 
innocent,  and  yet  he  had  had  the  cruelty  to  order  Him  to  be  scourged, 
and  to  expose  him  to  all  the  injuries  and  outrages  of  the  populace, 
and  at  last  he  told  ihe  Jews  to  take  Him  and  put  Him  to  death,  as 
though  a  magistrate  has  a  right  to  allow  others  to  commit  an  evil 
action,  which  he  does  not  wish  to  commit  himself.  But  he  had  not 
even  the  strength  to  persevere  in  this  way  ;  for  the  Jews  having  cried 
out,  '  If  thou  let  this  man  go,  thou  art  not  Caesar's  friend :  whoso- 
ever maketh  himself  king,  speaketh  against  C;esar,' — it  seemed  to  him 
then  that  he  saw  an  accusation  of  treason  hanging  over  his  head.  He 
knew  the  suspicious  character  of  Tiberius,  and  he  knew  how  easy  it 
would  be  to  ruin  him  in  the  mind  of  that  emperor,,     On  the  other 


THE   CURSE   OF   BLOOD. 


283 


haiifl,  he  was  aware  that  the  domination  of  the  Romans  was  not 
firmlv  estabhshed  in  Jiidca  ;  for  when  he  came  to  Jerusalem  to  take 
possession  of  his  government,  he  was  obHgeil  to  take  off  his  eagles 
and  to  uncrown  his  ensigns,  so  as  not  to  excite  an  insurrection  among 
tiie  people,  who  saw  in  these  badges  the  iniages  of  idolatry.  Here 
the  religious  feelings  of  the  people  were  engaged  :  they  repioached 
Jesus  for  having  called  Himself  the  son  of  (iod  :  they  accused  Him  ahso 
of  blasphemy  ;  and  he  feared,  in  resisting  the  jjeople,  to  excite  a  rfed> 
tion,  tile  infallible  consequence  of  which  would  be  the  dismissal  of 
the  governor. 

"  Agitated  by  the  fear  of  losing  his  place,  Pilate  returned  to  his  tri- 
bunal, brought  forth  Jesus,  and  sat  down  in  the  judgment-seat,  on  an 
elevated  mosaic  platform.  lie  said  to  the  Jews  :  '  Behold  your 
king  ! '  Hut  they  cried  out  :  '  Away  witii  him  !  away  with  him  !  cru- 
cify him!'  Pilate  answered  them  :  '  Shall  I  crucify  your  king  ? '  The 
chief-priests  responded :  '  We  have  no  other  king  but  Caisar.' 

"  At  that  word  Pilate  was  congealed  with  fear.  Seeing  that  he  could 
not  prevail  on  the  multitude  to  relent,  and  that,  if  he  deferred  sen- 
tence, the  tumult  would  only  increase,  he  called  for  some  water,  and 
washed  his  hands  before  the  people,  sa)ing  :  '  1  am  innocent  of  the 
blood  of  this  just  man,  look  you  to  it.'  It  was  an  ancient  custom,  to 
wash  one's  hands,  in  order  to  show  that  one  took  no  ])art  in  some- 
thing that  was  going  on.  Pilate  had  in  vain  recourse  to  this  miser- 
able subterfuge,  for  thereby  it  was  no  less  manifest  that  all  the  respon- 
sibility of  the  sentence  would  fall  upon  him.  In  delivering  Jesus  to 
his  enemies,  his  hands  were  dyed  with  his  blood.  In  vain  did  he 
wash  them  :  ihey  were  forever  to  remain  soiled  with  that  inefface- 
able stain. 

"  The  Jews  took  upon  themselves  the  responsibility  of  this  deicide  ; 
for,  when  Pilate  asked  them  if  they  wished  to  take  the  weight  of  this 
crime  upon  themselves,  all  the  peoi)le  responded:  "His  blood  be 
upon  us,  and  upon  our  children  !  "  This  terrible  imi)recation  has  been 
but  too  well  fulfdled.  The  blood  of  the  Just  One  fell  fust  upon  them  ; 
tor  the  generation  which  put  Jesus  to  death  had  to  support  all  the 
Honors  of  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  by  the  Roman  armies  under  Titus. 
It  fell  then  upon  their  descendants;  for  the  constant  dispersion  of  the 
Jewish  nation,  renders  it  a  living  witness,  which  has  transmitted  through 
centuries  the  realization  of  these  fearful  words.  Pilate,  too  weak  not 
to  yield  to  the  wishes  of  the  people,  released  Barabbas,  who  had  been 


t 


>) 


:M 


284 


THE   INFAMOUS   CROSS. 


if      1-1 '• 


I'il  I- 

'I 

1 


m 


i ,  * 


put  in  irons  for  murder  and  rebellion,  and  delivered  Jesus  to  the  Jews 
to  be  crucified. 

TUK    liXECUTION. 

'*  The  execution  on  the  cross  was  the  most  terrible  and  most  i^'iio- 
minious  of  all  i)unislinients.  The  unfortunate  being  who  was  con- 
demned to  it,  was  forced  to  carry  his  cross  himself  When  they 
came  to  the  ])lace  where  he  was  to  be  put  to  death,  they  fastcuLcl 
him  to  the  gibbet  with  nails,  which  they  forced  through  his  hands 
and  his  feet.  They  would  often  bind  the  condenuied  with  corils,  so 
as  to  prevent  their  springing,  in  moments  of  convulsive  pain,  out  of 
the  attitude  in  which  they  had  been  placed.  The  Romans  reserved 
this  punishment  for  slaves  and  the  greatest  felons.  The  law  did  not 
permit  it  to  be  inflicted  on  a  Roman  citizen  for  any  crime  whatsoever. 
One  of  the  pr.xtors  in  Sicily,  Verres,  had  the  audacity  to  crucify  a 
Roman  cit'zen.  Cicero  represents  this  action  as  the  blackest  and 
foulest  thai  it  ever  entered  the  mind  of  man  to  commit.  He  seems 
at  a  loss  for  words,  sufficiently  strong,  to  stigmatize  as  it  deserved 
such  an  outrage.  He  calls  it  a  violation  of  the  public  liberty  and  of 
the  majesty  of  the  empire. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  Jews  punishment  of  the  cross  was  not  less  abject 
than  it  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  Romans.  The  Mosaic  law  anathema- 
tizes the  criminal  subjected  to  it :  '  Cursed  by  God  be  he  who  is  hung 
to  a  gibbet.'  It  was  this  death,  which  was  cursed  by  God  and  exe- 
crated by  man,  that  the  i)arricidal  Jews  wished  to  inflict  upon  their 
king.  Pilate's  soldiers,  after  they  had  made  sport  of  Jesus,  took  off 
the  scarlet  mantle  which  they  had  thrown  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
putting  on  his  own  garments,  they  led  him  away  to  the  place  which  is 
called  Calvary,  and,  in  Hebrew,  Golgotha. 

"  It  was  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  the  moment  they 
offered  up  the  perpetual  morning  sacrifice,  that  Jesus,  taking  h's  cross 
on  his  shoulders,  traversed  the  city  of  Jerusalem  with  this  heavy 
burden.  In  going  out  of  the  city,  as  he  appeared  worn  out  with 
fatigue,  the  soldiers  stopped  a  Cyrenian,  named  Simon,  who  hap- 
l^ened  to  pass  by,  returning  to  the  city.  At  that  time,  there  were  a 
great  many  Jews  at  Cyrene,  which  was  the  ca])ital  of  one  of  the 
African  provinces,  and  it  was  nothing  strange  that  these  foreigners 
should  be  at  Jerusalem.  This  man  was  the  father  of  Alexander  and 
Rufus,  two  disciples  of  Jesus.     Simon,  not  knowing  what  they  wished 


losiis  to  the  Jcv/s 


13  anrl  most  \<^m- 
ig  who  was  (Oil- 


TKARS   Ol'"   COMl'AS^ION. 


285 


of  him,  at  first  made  soiiu;  objoction,  when  they  asked  him  to  help 
Jesus.  He  (Hd  not  wish  to  take  part  in  an  act  of  which  liis  consci- 
eiice  disapproved  ;  but  thi;  soldiers  seized  him,  and  he  no  longet 
n-sisted.  He  knew  the  adage,  wiiich  was  then  too  much  in  vogue 
ill  tliose  countries  concpiered  by  the  Romans  :  '  If  a  soldier  imposes 
on  thee  a  burden,  resist  not,  murmur  not,  otherwise  thou  wilt  be 
broken  to  i)ieces  with  blows.'  He  accepted  therefore  with  resig- 
nation the  part  of  the  cross  that  they  put  upon  his  shoulders. 

"Jesus  saw  on  His  last  journey  a  multitude  of  i)eople  who  were  in 
consternation  at  seeing  Him  go  up  to  be  executed.  Doubtless,  it  was 
composed  of  the  same  men  who  had  received  Him  in  triumph  a  few 
davs  before.  Their  hearts  still  retained  the  same  sentiments ;  but 
seeing  Him  surrounded  by  a  Roman  cohort  in  presence  of  the 
principal  ])ersonages  of  the  Jewish  nation,  they  dared  not  manifest 
their  thoughts,  and  they  contented  themselves  with  expressing  them 
bv  silent  moans  and  groans.  In  the  midst  of  this  compassionate 
crowd,  could  be  heard  the  sobbings  of  pious  women,  who  did  not  fear 
to  give  external  signs  of  their  sorrow.  Jesus,  turning  towards  them, 
and  with  a  gentleness  all  divine,  said  to  them  :  '  Daughters  of 
Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me,  but  weep  for  yourselves  and  for  your 
children.  I''or  behold  the  days  shall  come,  wherein  they  will  say  : 
'Blessed  are  the  barren,  and  the  wombs  that  have  not  borne,  and  the 
paps  that  have  not  given  suck.'  They  will  cry  out,  in  those  days,  to 
the  mountains  :  '  Fall  on  us,'  and  to  the  hills  :  '  Cover  us,  and  hide 
us  from  the  vengeance  of  an  irritated  Ciod.'  That  vengeance  will  be 
terrible  ;  for  if  they  treat  the  green  wood  thus,  what  shall  be  done  to 
the  dry?  which  signifies,  '  If  the  just  man  is  delivered  to  all  Uie  tor- 
ments that  I  endure,  what  ought  the  wicked  and  the  impious  to  ex- 
pect?' These  words  alluded  to  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  which 
Jesus  had  several  times  predicted,  and  which  occurred  thirty-seven 
years  after  His  passion. 

"Jesus  ascended  the  mountain,  accompanied  by  two  robbers,  who 
were  to  be  crucified  with  Him.  It  was  the  custom  among  the 
Romans,  to  write  out  on  a  tablet  the  causes  of  the  condemnation  of 
those  whom  they  led  to  execution,  and  to  fasten  it  around  the  neck 
of  the  condemned,  or  to  have  the  cause  ])roclaimed  aloud,  by  a  herald, 
who  preceded  them.  Pilate  himself  dictated  the  writing  which  should 
be  placed  above  the  cross  of  Jesus.  He  made  them  inscribe  these 
words,  'Jesus  of  Nazareth,  King  of  the  Jews  ; '  which  has  since  been 


li 


286 


THE   KING   OF   THE   JEWS. 


!.     i 


,. -iLfi 


I  \ 


expressed  by  the  Latin  initials,  I.  N.  R.  I.  He  wished  thereby  to  in- 
dicate that  Jesus  had  been  the  victim  of  a  pohiical  accusation,  and 
that  He  had  condenmed  Him  for  having  wished  to  make  an  attempt 
against  the  power  of  Cixisaj-,  by  calUng  himself  King  of  the  Jews, 

"  An  imaginary  crime,  if  there  ever  was  one ;  since  the  Jews  had  no 
thought  of  this  accusation  at  first,  and  had  only  brought  it  up  when 
they  despaired  of  their  case,  because  they  saw  that  it  was  the  only 
means  of  inducing  Tilate  to  condemn  Him.  The  ^'.ief-priests,  seeing 
this  inscription,  feared  that  it  might  be  taken  to  the  letter,  as  an 
aftirmation,  and  they  said  to  Pilate  :  '  Write  not,  The  King  of  the 
Jews ;  but  that  //e  said,  1  am  the  King  of  the  Jews.'  The  Roman 
governor  would  not  yield  to  this  sort  of  scruple,  and  he  answered 
tliem  :  '  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written,  and  I  will  not  have  it 
changed.'  This  inscription  was  written  in  Hebrew,  in  Greek,  and  in 
Latin.  Latin  was  the  tongue  of  the  judge  who  had  sentenced  Him, 
and  as  Judea  was  subjected  to  the  Roman  domination,  there  was  a 
certain  number  of  inhabitants  who  spoke  the  language  of  the  con- 
queror. After  the  Captivitj'^,  the  Hebrew  had  remained  the  sacred 
language  of  the  Jews,  but  many  of  the  people  spoke  (ireek,  since 
the  reign  of  the  Seleucides.  They  put  the  inscription  in  these  three 
tongues,  that  it  might  be  read   with  equal  facility  by  citizens  and 


strangers. 


"  According  to  the  Talmud,  while  the  Jews  were  going  up  to  Calvary, 
they  carried  His  tablet  before  him,  which  announced  the  cause  ot"  Hii> 
condenmation,  and  they  proclaimed,  in  a  loud  voice,  that  He  was  a 
seditious  person,  and  had  tried,  by  His  witchcraft,  to  seduce  Israel, 
and  to  urge  the  people  to  disobedience,  and  that  He  had  brought 
down  upon  himself  the  indignation  of  Caesar,  for  having  wished  to 
usuri)  his  royalty.  \Vhen  they  arrived  at  Calvary,  at  the  place 
where  they  were  going  to  crucify  Him,  they  gave  Him  wine  to  drink, 
mixed  with  gall  and  myrrh.  It  was  the  custom,  when  there  was  any 
one  going  to  be  crucified,  to  present  this  drink  to  him,  which  had  the 
liower  of  benumbing  the  victim,  so  as  to  prevent  his  feeling  all  the 
violence  of  his  pain.  The  ladies  of  Jerusalem  prepared  this  bever- 
age, out  of  compassion  for  the  unfortunate  creatures  who  were  to  be 
executed.  This  drink  was  presented  to  Jesus,  who  tasted  it,  am.' 
then  refused  to  drink,  no  doubt  disdaining  tl  is  artificial  means  of  al 
leviating  His  sufferings.  He  wished  to  ihink  the  chalice  of  suffering 
to  the  very  dregs,  without  .seeking  any  relief. 


led  thereby  to  in. 
1  accusation,  and 
make  an  attempt 
of  the  Jews, 
the  Jews  had  no 
ought  it  up  wlicii 
:  it  was  the  only 
iet-priests,  seeing 
the   letter,  as  an 
'he  King  of  tlie 
s.'     The  Roman 
ind  he  answered 
will  not  have  it 
in  Greek,  and  in 
sentenced  Him, 
tion,  there  was  a 
lage  of  the  con- 
ained  the  sacred 
ke   Greek,  since 
an  in  these  three 
by  citizens  and 

ng  up  to  Calvary, 
the  cause  of  His 
,  that  He  was  a 

0  seduce  Israel, 
He  had  brought 
aving  wished  to 
{,  at    the  place 

1  wine  to  drink, 
n  there  was  any 
n,  which  had  the 

feeling  all  the 
ired  this  bever- 
who  were  to  he 
>  tasted  it,  and 
ial  means  of  al 
lice  of  suffering 


CALVARY. 


I'' 


W 

r 

i 

1  !' ^^  m.'-'  \ 

m 

i 

'^  i 

I 

THE   CRUCIFIXION. 


2S7 


"  They  fastened  Jes'is  to  the  cross,  at  the  same  time  that  they  did 
the  two  robbers  who  accompanied  him.  They  placed  Him  in  the 
centre,  and  one  robber  on  His  right  hand  and  the  other  on  His  left, 
and  so  was  the  prophecy  fulfilled  whicli  said  :  '  They  '•'''erced  liis 
hands  and  his  feet,  and  they  counted  all  his  bones  ;  He  was  ranked 
among  the  wicked.'  Instead  of  demanding  vengeance  for  such  infa- 
niv,  Jesus  said  :  '  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they 

do.' 

"  It  was  towards  the  sixth  hour,  which  is  to  say,  towards  noon,  that 
Jesus  was  fastened  to  the  cross.  After  they  crucified  him,  the  sol- 
diers thought  of  profiting  by  the  spoils.  The  Roman  law  permitted 
the  executiont^rs  to  take  possession  of  thc^  clothing  of  those  whom 
they  put  to  death.  In  the  provinces,  the  local  authorities  habitu- 
ally re(iuired  an  armed  force  to  execute  capital  sentences.  The  sol- 
diers who  filled  the  office  of  constables  or  executioners,  had  naturally 
the  advantage  over  the  others.  Those  who  crucified  Jesus  made  four 
parts  of  his  garments,  one  for  each  of  them  ;  for  we  learn  from  Poly- 
biiis,  that  a  detached  picket  was  always  composed  of  four  men.  They 
lock  his  tunic,  and  as  it  was  without  seam,  but  woven  whole  from  the 
top  to  the  bottom,  they  said  among  themselves  :  '  Let  us  not  cut 
it,  but  let  us  cast  lots  for  it  ; '  and  they  thus  fulfilled,  without  know- 
ing it,  these  words  in  the  scripture:  'They  divided  my  garments 
among  them,  and  on  my  clothing  they  cast  lots.'  After  that,  the 
soldiers  sat  down  near  Jesus,  to  watch  him,  for  fear  that  his  disciples 
should  seek  to  detach  him  from  the  cross,  and  carry  him  away. 

"  The  populace,  which  had  demanded  his  death,  stood  there  and 
looked  on,  with  a  most  barbarous  ferocity,  at  his  blood,  as  it  flowed 
from  his  wounds.  Those  who  passed  by,  began  blaspheming  Him, 
and  saying,  while  they  shook  their  heads  :  '  Bah  !  thou  that  destroy- 
est  the  teni])le  of  (iod,  and  in  three  days  dost  rebuild  it,  save  thyself ! 
If  tliou  be  the  Son  of  (Jod,  come  down  from  the  cross !'  These  in- 
sults were  the  literal  fulfilment  of  the  words  that  David  put  into  the 
iiioulh  of  Jesus,  nearly  a  thousand  years  before:  '  Those  who  saw 
Die  scoffed  at  my  misery  :  they  shook  their  heads,  and  they  opened 
their  lips  to  blaspheme  me.' 

*'  iUit,  what  was  most  astonishing,  the  chief-jiriests,  the  priests,  the 
elders,  and  doctors  of  the  law  were  not  satisfied  with  surfeiting  their 
eyes  on  the  sufierings  of  him  whose  ruin  they  had  sworn,  but,  in  their 
blind  hatred,  they  carried  their  vileness  so  far  as  to  insult  him  ynd 


\-    \ 


I  i 


l« 


'.! 


n    a 


i 


( 

"'-*.. 


288 


SCENES   ON   CALVARY. 


outrage  hlin  on  the  cross,  even  at  th  ?  moment  that  his  strength  was 
failing  and  while  he  was  breathing  his  last  sigh.  '  He  sa\'ed  others,' 
they  mockingly  cried,  '  but  himself  he  cannot  save.  If  he  is  the  king 
of  Israel,  let  him  come  do'»'n  from  the  cross,  and  we  will  believe  in 
liim.  If  he  is  the  Messiah,  the  beloved  of  God,  now  is  the  time  to 
show  his  power.  He  trusted  in  (lod  :  very  well,  if  God  loves  him, 
let  him  deliver  him  now.  He  ought  to  ex[)ect  it,  since  he  said  he 
was  the  son  of  God.'  These  blasphemies  were  only  the  echo  of  the 
words  that  the  Psalmist  had  used,  in  speaking  of  the  Messiah,  re- 
duced to  the  last  extremity  of  humiliation  and  suffering :  '  My  ene- 
mies mocked  me,  and  cried  out :  '  He  trusted  in  the  Lord,  let  the 
Lord  now  come  to  his  help  :  if  it  is  true  that  he  loves  him,  let  him 
deliver  him  from  the  hands  of  his  tormentors.' 

"  The  Roman  soldiers,  wlio  had  made  sport  of  Jesns  before  they 
nailed  Him  to  the  cross,  mingled  iheir  insults  and  mockeries  with  those 
of  the  Jews,  and  they,  too,  cried  out :  '  U  thou  art  the  King  of  the 
Jews  save  thyself.'  One  of  the  thieves  who  were  crucified  with 
Jesus,  broke  out  into  a  sort  of  infuriate  blasphemy,  saying  :  '  If 
thou  be  Christ,  save  thyself,  and  save  us  with  thee.'  lUit  the  other 
answered  him,  and  rebuked  him,  saying:  'Dost  thou  not  fear  (Jod 
either,  seeing  that  thou  art  under  the  same  condemnation  ?  For  us, 
indeed,  it  is  justice,  for  we  are  but  receiving  the  reward  due  to  our 
crimes  ;  but  this  man  hath  done  no  evil.'  Then,  turning  towards 
Jesus,  he  said :  '  Lord,  rememl:)er  me  when  thou  shalt  come  into 
thy  kingdom.'  Jesus  answered:  'Amen:  I  say  to  thee,  this  day 
thou  shalt  be  with  me  in  Paradise.' 

A  mother's  agony. 

"  When  Simeon  took  the  infant  Jesus  into  his  arms,  he  predicted 
that  He  was  set  up  for  the  ruin  and  salvation  of  many  in  Israel. 
This  separation  of  those  who  were  to  be  lost  and  those  who  were  to 
be  saved,  began  on  the  cross  itself,  in  the  persons  of  these  two  thieves, 
who  were  the  companions  of  His  execution. 

•'  Mary,  the  mother  of  Jesus,  was  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  with  llu- 
holy  women.  During  the  preaching  of  Jesus,  His  mother  remaiiui' 
in  isolation  and  obsciu'ity,  and  had  no  share  in  the  renown  that  His 
doctrine  and  miracles  had  won  for  him  throughout  Judea.  This 
humble  woman  only  presented  herself  once  to  her  Son,  when  he  was 
drawing  a  crowd  around   Him  by  the  brightness  and  power  of  Hin 


It' 


BEHOLD   TIIV    MOTHER. 


!89 


his  strength  was 
e   sa\'ed  others,' 

If  he  is  the  kin-r 
e  will  believe  in 
iV  is   the  time  to 

God  loves  hill), 
ince  he  said  he 

the  echo  of  the 

he   Afessiah,  le- 

ring:  '  Afy  ene- 

le   Lord,  let  the 

'es  hiu),  let  him 

;sus  before  they 
keries  with  those 
the  King  of  the 
i  criicitied  with 
ly,  saying  :  '  If 
IJiit  the  other 
HI  not  fear  (iod 
ation  ?  For  us, 
kvard  due  to  our 
turning  towards 
dialt  come  into 
)  thee,  this  day 


IS,  he  predicted 
many  in  Israel. 
)se  who  were  to 
ese  two  thieves, 

cross,  with  llie 
other  remainec' 
L'nown  that  Mis 

Jiulea.  This 
n,  when  he  was 
1  power  of  lliii 


word  ;  but,  according  to  the  gospel,  Jesus  was  ftir  from  engaging  her 
to  follow  him,  because  he  desired  to  teach  man  that  there  was  a 
time  in  his  life  when  he  should  leave  his  father  and  his  motlier,  to 
devote  himself  entirely  to  his  calling.  Hut  when  this  heroic  woman 
knew  that  the  time  of  Mis  preaching  had  ended,  and  tJiat  the  liDiir 
of  His  sacrifice  had  come,  she  left  (ialilee  and  came  to  Jerusalem,  to 
associate  herself  with  Him  in  His  passion.  She  partook  of  all  His 
injuries,  suffered  all  His  pains,  and  saw  herself,  as  it  were,  with  Him, 
insulted  at  the  house  of  the  high-]iriest,  abandoned  by  Pilate,  de- 
spised by  Herod,  dragged  through  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  and  cruci- 
fied on  Calvary.  What  is  marvellous  is,  that  Mavy,  wounded  in 
her  mother's  heart  by  the  most  excruciating  suffering  and  humilia- 
tion, at  the  sight  of  her  son  nailed  to  a  cross  between  two  thieves, 
nevertheless  preserves  a  constancy  of  soul  and  a  serenity  of  counte- 
nance, which  enables  her  to  stand  up,  at  the  same  time  that  she 
feels,  with  Jesus,  all  the  violent  convulsions  of  His  most  painful 
agony.  Jesus,  in  seeing  His  mother,  at  the  foot  of  His  cross,  noticed 
her  at  the  same  time  that  he  did  John,  His  beloved  disciple.  He 
only  addressed  them  a  few  words,  which  were,  in  some  respects,  his 
last  will  and  testament.  Not  wishing  to  leave  His  mother  alone  on 
earth,  He  told  her  to  adopt  John  for  her  son,  and  told  John  to  adopt 
Mary  for  his  mother.  'Woman,'  said  he  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  as  he 
threw  a  glance  on  John,  '  behold  thy  son  ; '  and  then,  gazing  on 
JVIary,  he  said  to  John  :  '  Behold  thy  mother.' 

"When  her  divine  Son  uttered  these  words,  the  heart  of  Mary 
was  pierced  by  a  sword,  as  predicted  by  the  venerable  Simeon,  soon 
after  the  birth  of  Jesus.  It  was  indeed  a  precious  legacy  that  Jesus 
made  to  John,  in  confiding  to  his  tender  friendship  his  own  mother, 
the  dearest  thing  to  him  of  all  he  had  on  earth.  The  grateful  dis- 
ciple understood  it,  and,  from  that  moment,  he  took  Mary  to  his 
home,  and  surrounded  her  with  all  the  veneration  which  was  due  to 
the  mother  of  (lod. 

"Christians  consider  that  this  legacy  was  made  to  them,  in  the  per- 
son of  John,  and  the  devotion  to  the  Virgin,  which  is  spread  through- 
out the  church,  has  its  origin,  like  that  to  Christ,  on  Calvary  itself. 
I'\)r  it  rests  on  that  testamert  of  Jesus,  who  gives  to  Mary  the  human 
race  for  her  family,  at  the  same  time  that  he  adopted  all  its  members 
as  His  own  brothers,  in  permitting  all  men  to  call  his  mother  their 
mother. 

'3 


290 


DESOLATION. 


NATURE   PROTESTS. 


>,   1 


i  :  I'Ls 


"When  Jesus  bade  His  mother  and  St.  John,  farewell,  it  was  about 
noon.  The  sun  was  obscured  and  darkness  was  spread  over  the 
whole  earth  until  three  p.m.  This  darkness  cannot  be  attributed  to 
an  e  iipse  of  the  sun,  as  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  is  impossible  during 
the  ti.A  moon,  and  the  feast  of  the  Passover  was  always  celebrated 
in  March,  during  the  full  moon.  It  is  not  better  explained  by  the 
effect  of  an  earthquake,  or  by  other  natural  causes.  This  obscurity 
did  not  reign  over  Judea  alone  ;  for  St.  Justin  and  TertuUian  appeal, 
in  relation  to  this  fact,  to  the  annalists  of  the  empire,  who  had  taken 
note  of  it ;  and  it  was  this  which  caused  the  martyr  Lucian  to  say  to 
the  Romans  :  '  I  appeal  to  the  sun,  which  vailed  its  face  from  the 
view  of  the  iniquities  on  earth.  Read  your  own  annals,  and  you 
will  find  that,  during  the  time  of  Pilate,  when  Christ  suffered,  the 
sun  withdrew, — and,  in  full  mid-day,  darkness  took  the  place  of 
light.' 

"  At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Jesus  cried,  with  a  loud  voice, 
saying  :  '  Eli,  Eli,  lamma  sabachthani  ? '  which  is  the  Hebrew  for, 
'  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ? '  These  words 
are  the  beginning  of  the  twenty-first  Psalm,  in  which  David  painted, 
m  the  most  vivid  manner,  the  sufferings  that  Christ  was  to  endure. 
The  chief  priests,  the  doctors,  and  the  elders,  who  knew  this  Psalm, 
ought  to  have  been  penetrated  with  its  meaning,  on  hearinr;  tiiese 
prophetic  accents,  and  applied  them  to  what  was  passing  around 
them.  But  they  were  to  hear  all  and  not  understand  :  they  did  not 
seem  to  be  more  struck  by  this  announcement  than  by  many  others, 
and  some  of  those  who  were  there  not  understanding  the  Hebrew 
tongue  said,  '  Behold,  this  man  called  Elias.'  Jesus  knowing  that  there 
only  remained  one  more  prophecy  to  be  accomplished,  said,  '  I 
thirst,'  and  as  there  was  a  vase  filled  with  vinegar  at  hand,  one  of 
those  present  took  a  sponge,  and  plunged  it  into  the  vinegar,  put  it  on 
a  reed,  and  gave  it  to  Him  to  drink,  saying  to  those  around,  as  he 
presented  the  sponge  to  His  lips :  '  Stay,  let  us  see  if  Elias  come  to 
take  Him  down ; '  and  those  who  were  there,  repeated  the  same 
words.  Jesus,  having  taken  the  vinegar,  fulfilled  what  was  said  of 
Him  by  the  Psalmist :  '  They  gave  me  gall  to  eat,  and  vinegar  to 
drink.'     All  the  prophecies  being  then  fulfilled,  Jesus  said  :    '  //  is 


THE   SON  OF   GOD. 


291 


1,  it  was  about 
read  over  the 
e  attributed  to 
)ossible  durin" 
lys  celebrated 
)lained  by  the 
This  obscurity 
tullian  appeal, 
tv'ho  had  taken 
ician  to  say  to 

face  from  the 
inals,  and  you 
:  suffered,  the 

the  place  of 

1  a  loud  voice, 
;  Hebrew  for, 
These  words 
David  painted, 
va.s  to  endure, 
vv  this  Psalm, 
hearinr;  these 
lassing  around 
:  they  did  not 
'  many  others, 
;  the  Hebrew 
ving  that  there 
hed,  said,  '  I 
hand,  one  of 
egar,  put  it  on 
around,  as  he 
Elias  come  to 
ted  the  same 
,t  was  said  of 
nd  vinegar  to 
3  said  :    '  /i  is 


consummated'  He  then  cried  out  again,  in  a  loud  voice  :  '  Father, 
into  thy  hands  1  conunend  my  spirit ; '  and,  after  pronouncing  these 
words,  He  bowed  his  head,  and  gave  up  the  ghost. 

"  The  vail  of  the  temple  was  rent  in  twain,  from  the  top  to  tlie 
bottom,  and  the  Holy  of  Holies,  which  was  the  innermost  part  of  the 
Jewish  temple,  where  the  ark  was  kept,  into  which  the  high-[)riest 
entered  but  once  a  year,  on  the  day  of  the  feast  of  the  Expiation, 
was  uncovered,  to  indicate  that  the  ceremonies  of  the  old  law  were 
to  give  place  to  the  realities  of  the  new.  Nature,  which  seemed  to 
have  gone  into  mourning  a  few  hours  before  this  event,  was  at  tliat 
moment  delivered  from  the  obscurity  which  weighed  over  her ;  but, 
in  the  place  of  this  prodigy,  were  substituted  terrible  signs,  which 
announced  the  greatness  of  the  Crucified.  The  earth  quaked,  and 
the  rocks  were  rent,  and  the  graves  yawned,  and  many  bodies 
of  the  saints  that  had  slept,  arose,  and,  coming  out  of  the  toml)s 
after  their  resurrection,  came  into  Jerusalem,  and  appeared  to  many 
who  had  known  them. 

"The  Pharisees  and  the  Sadducees  had  often  said  to  Jesus,  during 
the  course  of  His  evangelical  preaching,  that,  if  He  would  cause  a  mira- 
culous sign  to  come  down  from  Heaven,  they  would  believe  in  Him. 
Christ,  at  His  death,  gave  them  signs  from  Heaven,  by  enveloping  the 
earth  at  mid-day  in  a  profound  darkness,  which  could  not  have  been 
produced  by  any  natural  cause.  He  also  gave  them  signs  in  the 
lemple,  and  on  earth,  which  surpassed  the  other  miraculous  pheno- 
mena told  in  the  history  of  His  life.  But  all  these  signs  did  not  de- 
tach them,  in  the  least,  from  their  incredulity.  It  was  not  so  with 
the  centurion,  or  Roman  captain,  and  they  tiiat  were  with  him,  watch- 
ing Jesus.  This  officer  was  standing  in  front  of  the  cross,  and,  seeing 
what  had  happened,  and  hearing  Jesus'  dying  words,  he  rendered 
glory  unto  God,  and  said  :  '  Indeed,  this  was  a  just  man :  he  was 
truly  the  son  of  God.'  So  when  the  multitude  of  those  who  had 
l)een  present  there,  and  had  witnessed  all  that  had  happened,  felt 
the  earth  quake,  and  heard  these  words  :  '  He  was  truly  the  son  of 
God,'  the  most  of  them  went  away,  sobbing  and  striking  their  breasts, 
at  the  thought  of  the  great  crime  that  had  been  committed." 


fl' 


292 


THE   LIVING   GOSPEL. 


H   '1  ■ 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 


NAPOLEON    AND    CHRIST. — I    LOSE    MY   SAINTLY    INSTRUCTOR. 


1!     i| 


One  day  in  reading  I  was  delighted  with  the  argument  of  Napoleon 
L  proving  with  cogent  logic  from  the  Characteristics  of  Christianity, 
that  its  founder  must  have  been  divine  : — 

"  Christianity,"  says  he,  "  has  an  advantage  over  all  philosoi)hies 
and  over  all  religions.  Christians  do  not  deceive  themselves  with  re- 
gard to  the  nature  of  things.  They  cannot  be  reproached  with  the 
subtlety  nor  charlatanism  of  the  ideologists,  who  believe  they  have 
solved  the  great  enigmas  of  theological  questions,  by  vain  disserta- 
tions on  these  great  subjects.  Imbeciles  !  whose  folly  is  like  that  of  a 
child  who  wishes  to  touch  Heaven  with  its  hands,  or  who  from  curi- 
osity asks  for  the  moon  as  a  plaything. 

"  Christianity  says,  with  simplicity  :  '  No  one  has  seen  God  except 
God.  God  has  revealed  what  He  is.  His  revelation  is  a  mystery, 
such  as  reason  or  the  mind  cannot  comprehend  ;  but,  since  (iod  has 
spoken,  /le  must  be  believed.'  This  is  good  common  sense.  The 
gospel  has  a  secret  virtue,  an  indescribable  efficacy,  a  warmth,  which 
acts  on  the  understanding  and  which  charms  the  heart.  The  gospel 
is  not  a  book.  It  is  a  living  thing,  with  an  expansive  power,  which 
overwhelms  everything  that  opposes  its  spread.  One  never  wearies 
of  reading  it,  and  every  day  one  reads  it  with  the  same  pleasure 
Christ  does  not  vary :  He  never  hesitates  in  His  teaching,  and  the 
slightest  affirmation  by  Him  is  marked  with  a  seal  of  simplicity  and 
depth  which  captivates  both  the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  however 
little  they  may  pay  attention  to  it. 

"  Nowhere  else  than  in  the  gospel  can  be  found  that  series  of 
sublime  ideas,  of  beautiful  moral  maxims,  which  open  out  like  the 
battalions  of  the  celestial  host,  and  which  produce — in  our  souls — the 
same  sentiments  that  we  experience,  when  we  consider  the  infinite 
extent  of  Heaven,  resplendent,  on  a  beautitul  summer's  night,  with 
the  glitter  of  the  stars.  When  we  study  it,  our  mind  is  not  only 
filled,  but  governed  by  it,  and  the  soul  never  runs  any  risk  of  going 
astray  with  this  book. 

"  Once  master  of  our  mind,  the  gospel  captivates  our  heart.     God 


'RUCTOR. 


Iieart.     God 


I  AM  GOD. 


293 


Himself  is  our  friend.  Our  Ciod  is  truly  our  Father.  A  mother 
takes  no  greater  care  of  the  child  which  she  nourishes.  Tlie  soul, 
captivated  by  the  beauty  of  the  gospel,  no  longer  belongs  to  itself. 
(Jod  takes  entire  iiossession  of  it.  He  directs  its  thoughts  and  its 
faculties  ;  it  is  His.  What  a  proof  of  the  divinity  of  Christ !  With 
such  an  absolute  eni[)ire,  He  has  but  one  object, — the  spiritual  amelio- 
ration of  men,  purity  of  conscience,  union  with  that  which  is  true, 
tlie  sanctity  of  the  soul.  Finally,  here  is  my  last  argument :  There 
is  not  a  Clod  in  Heaven,  if  a  man  could  conceive,  and  execute  with 
such  perfect  success,  the  gigantic  design  of  appropriating  to  himself 
the  supreme  worship,  by  usurping  the  name  of  God.  Jesus  is  the 
only  one  who  ever  dared  to  do  it.  He  is  the  only  one  who  has 
plainly  said,  /  am  God ;  which  is  quite  different  from  that  affirma- 
tion, '  I  am  a  God  ; '  or  of  that  other,  '  These  are  (lods.'  History 
docs  not  mention  that  any  other  individual  qualified  himself  by 
the  title  of  God,  in  the  absolute  sense.  Fable  nowhere  estab- 
lishes that  Jupiter  and  the  other  gods  had  made  themselves  Gods. 
It  would  have  been  on  their  part  the  fulness  of  pride,  and  a 
monstrosity,  an  absurd  extravagance.  It  was  posterity,  the  heirs 
of  the  first  despots,  who  deified  them.  All  men  being  of  the 
same  race,  Alexander  could  call  himself  the  son  of  Jupiter,  but  all 
Greece  laughed  at  the  fraud ;  and  it  was  the  same  with  regard  to  the 
apotheosis  of  the  Roman  emi)erors,  which  was  never  a  serious  thing 
for  the  Romans.  Mahomet  and  Confucius  gave  themselves  out  to 
be  simply  agents  of  the  Divinity.  The  goddess  Egeria  of  Numa  was 
never  anything  but  the  personification  of  an  inspiration,  drawn  from 
the  solitude  of  the  forests.  The  lirahma  gods  of  India  were  a  psy- 
chological invention.  A  Jew,  whose  historical  existence  is  better 
verified  than  that  of  any  who  lived  during  His  time, — the  son  of  a 
carpenter,  is  the  first  and  only  one,  who  gives  Himself  out  to  be  God, 
the  Su\)renie  Being,  the  Creator  of  beings  ? 

"  He  claims  for  Himself  every  kind  of  adoration  ;  He  builds  up  the 
temple  of  His  worship  with  His  own  hands,  not  of  stones,  but  of  men. 

"  We  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  conquests  of  Alexander  j  but  here 
is  a  Conqueror  who  ap])ropriates  to  His  own  purposes,  who  unites, 
who  incorporates  in  Himself,  not  a  nation,  but  the  human  race  ! 
What  a  miracle  !  The  human  soul  with  all  its  faculties  becomes  an 
annexation  of  the  existence  of  Christ.  An'l  how  ?  By  a  prodigy 
which  surpasses  all  prodigies  !    He  wants  the  love  of  men  ;  that  is  to 


f 


294 


THE   CONQUEROR   OF   HEARTS. 


II 


4  !: 


say,  He  wants  that  which  is  the  most  difficult  thing  on  earth  to  obtain, 
that  which  a  sage  vainly  asks  of  a  few  friends,  a  father  of  his  children, 
a  wife  of  her  spouse,  a  brother  of  a  brother, — in  a  word,  the  heart  of 
man :  it  is  that  which  He  wants  for  Himself ;  he  absolutely  exacts  it,  and 
He  succeeds  at  once.     From  this  J  conclude  that  he  was  divine.'  " 

AVhenever  the  Bishop  would  cease  speaking,  he  always  looked 
faint  and  weary.  There  were  moments  when  a  deadi-like  ])allc)r 
would  steal  over  his  face  ;  but,  as  he  never  complained,  I  attributed 
that  ghastly  paleness,  and  that  contortion  of  his  features,  which  ho 
vainly  tried  to  hide,  to  the  emotions  of  his  heart.  I  knew  that  hr 
was  wedded  to  God,  and  to  (iod's  church,  and  he  suffered  to  se( 
the  greater  portion  of  mankind  living  in  open  rebellion  against  the 
Creator,  and  I  knew  that  he  thirsted  to  offer  up  those  souls  to  Jesus. 

I  always  dreaded  the  striking  of  the  hour  when  he  should  have  to 
leave,  and  always  hailed  with  joy  the  hour  appointed  for  him  to  re- 
turn. One  day  lie  rose  to  go.  "  Good-by,  my  child,"  said  he, 
"until  we  meet  again.  God  has  His  designs  upon  you:  continue 
always  to  pray,  and  He  will  give  you  light."  1  knelt  down  to  re- 
ceive his  blessing :  he  gave  me  his  hand,  and  I  kissed  his  ring. 
When  I  Narose,  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  yet  I  could  not 
tell  why.  I  knew  that  he  was  going  to  start  that  evening  for  Bor- 
deaux, but,  in  a  few  weeks,  he  expected  to  return.  Still  I  dreaded 
to  have  him  leave ;  for  the  convent  seemed  doubly  sweet  since  he 
had  been  there.  He,  too,  appeared  sad  at  parting,  and,  that  evening, 
I  followed  him  out  of  the  chateau  and  we  parted  at  the  garden  gate, 
where  he  repeated,  "  May  (iod  bless  j'ou,  my  daughter,"  and  then 
we  bade  each  other  a  last  good-by.  A  few  weeks  passed  away,  but 
he  did  not  come  back.  One  afternoon"  I  saw  Sister  Madeleine  in  the 
gasden  gathering  fagots.  She  had  a  blue  check  apron  on,  and, 
every  now  and  then,  I  noticed  that  she  raised  the  corner  of  her  apron 
to  her  face,  as  though  she  were  wiping  away  her  tears.  I  ran  out  to 
her,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  why  she  wept.  Said  she  :  "  Go  and 
ask  the  Rev.  Mother;"  but  I  refused  to  leave  her  side,  and  kept 
close  by  her,  and  began  helping  her  to  gather  the  fagots.  At  last  we 
reached  a  spot  in  the  garden,  where  poor  Sister  Madeleine  gave  way 
to  all  her  filial  tenderness,  and,  stooping  down,  she  kissed  the  ground 
beneath  her  feet,  as  reverentially  as  though  it  had  been  her  crucifix. 
My  heart  felt  a  pang,  and  1  at  once  divined  the  secret :  my  revered 
instructor  was  dead  !     I  threw  my  arms  around  her  neck,  and  began 


IN    PEACE. 


295 


rtli  to  obtain, 

f  liis  children, 

the  heart  of 

twacis  it,  and 

S  DIVINK.'  " 
ways   looked 
li-like   paUor 
,  I  attributed 
es,  wliich  he- 
new  that  h«' 
ftered  to  set 
against  the 
)ids  to  Jesus, 
ould  have  to 
or  him  to  re- 
Id,"  said  he, 
'11 :   continue 
down  to  re- 
ed his  ring. 

I  could  not 
ing  for  Bor- 

II  1  dreaded 
eet  since  he 
hat  evening, 
garden  gate, 
■,"  and  then 
!(!  away,  but 
ileine  in  the 
)n  on,  and, 
Df  her  a[)ron 
I  ran  out  to 

:  "  Go  and 
e,  and  kept 

At  last  we 
le  gave  way 

the  ground 
!ier  crucifix, 
my  revered 
,  and  began 


to  weep  as  though  she  had  told  me  all.  It  was  on  that  sp:)t  of  earth, 
which  had  become  so  sacred  to  Sister  Madeleine,  that  the  Bishop  had 
stood,  when  he  last  spoke  to  her,  when  he  gave  her  his  parting  bless- 
in-;.  I  knew  it,  for  I  saw  them.  "  Oh,  madam,"  she  exclaimed, 
"he  was  a  saint !  He  sanctified  the  ground  he  walked  on,  he  was 
so  much  like  our  I^ord." 

We  continued  gathering  fagots  until  we  reached  the  Sister's  little 
rustic  oratory,  which  was  only  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Viigin,  j^laced 
on  a  heap  of  stones,  in  one  of  the  angles  of  the  garden.  But  she  had 
concealed  the  stones  by  evergreens  and  moss.  There  we  both  knelt 
down,  and  I  began  to  imi)lore  our  Lord  to  have  mercy  on  me ;  but 
Sister  Madeleine's  guardian  angel  must  have  told  her  that  I  was  not 
l^raying  as  I  should,  for  she  leaned  towards  me  and  softly  said : 
"  Pray  for  him  :  it  will  make  him  haj^py,  he  took  such  an  interest  in 
your  salvation,  and  he  will  not  forget  you  now." 

The  Sister's  words  filled  my  soul  with  joy,  and  the  statue  of  the 
Mother  of  God  brought  the  good  Bishop  vividly  before  me.  I  had 
already  felt  how  sweet  it  was  to  pray  for  that  mother  I  had  never 
loved  ;  but,  in  that  garden,  before  that  little  rustic  altar,  I  felt,  for  the 
first  time,  how  it  is  doubly  sweet  to  pray  for  those  whose  memory  we 
revere  and  cherish ;  and  Madam  Xavier's  words  seemed  to  fall  once 
more  on  my  ears,  "It  is  a  good  and  wholesome  thing  to  jjray  for  the 
dead."  I  rose  from  my  knees  consoled,  and  so  did  Sister  Madeleine, 
for  we  both  fe:  c  that  he  was  happy.  We  knew  that  he  had  sent  in 
advance  his  heart  and  Ins  treasures  there  where  stability  reigns,  and 
that  when  Death  came  he  must  have  welcomed  it  as  he  would  a  sister 
upon  waking ;  because  for  him  it  was  sleep  that  ended,  it  was  life 
that  began,  and  the  eternal  day  that  dawned. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

MY   NEW    TEACHER. 


A  FEW  days  after  the  Bishop  left  for  Bordeaux  the  Rev.  Mother 
introduced  me  to  the  Cure  of  St,  Mande,  who  was  to  undertake  the 
arduous  task  of  teaching  me  the  Catholic  doctrine.  The  Bishop  had  laid 
a  good  foundation,  however,  for  the  cure  to  build  upon  ;  for,  with- 


1 


^ 


r  \ 
lb 


tT. 


296 


THE   PROMISED   REDEEMER. 


out  having  had  the  instructions  of  the  IJishoj)  I  doubt  if  I  could  have 
been  able  to  comprehend  anything  that  the  f//re  tried  to  teach  nic. 
He  explained  to  nie  all  the  essential  dogmas  of  the  church,  those  which 
embarrass  Protestants  and  infidels,  and  which  they  find  nu)st  difficult 
to  understand.  He  also  spoke  to  me  a  great  deal  about  the  English 
Church  and  its  constitution,  because  he  saw  that  1  was  mclined  to 
believe  that  that  church  was  as  much  (Jod's  church  as  was  the  Church 
of  Rome.  "We,  Roman  Catholics,"  he  said,  "believe  in  one  Cod, 
who  is  the  creator,  legislator,  and  judge  of  the  whole  universe.  We 
believe  that  man  was  created  for  Ciod,  and  that  all  Cod  requires  of 
man  is  that  he  should  love,  honor,  and  serve  Him  ;  and  by  loving, 
honoring,  and  serving  Cod,  man  saves  his  soul.  We  believe  that  all 
things  upon  earth  were  created  for  man,  to  aid  him  in  the  i)ursuit  of 
this  end  for  which  he  was  created.  We  believe  that  i^ian  ought  to 
make  use  of  the  things  of  this  earth  only  inasmuch  as  they  assist  him 
in  loving,  honoring,  and  serving  Cod,  and  that  he  ought  to  abstain 
from  them  whenever  they  cause  him  to  deviate  or  depart  from  the 
straight  road  which  leads  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  end  for  which 
he  was  created. 

"  In  the  beginning  Cod  conversed  with  man,  and  gave  him  His  law. 
Man  was  happy  until  he  disobeyed  that  law.  (Jod  foresaw  all  the 
miseries  and  misfortunes  which  man's  disobedience  would  entail 
upon  the  hiunan  race ;  but  he  left  it  to  man's  free  will  to  obey  or  not 
to  obey. 

"After  man's  disobedience  Cod  drove  him  from  Paradise,  but  did 
not  leave  him  without  hope;  for  he  gave  him  to  hope  that,  by  repen- 
tance, he  could  recover,  after  death,  the  Paradise  he  had  lost,  and 
he  promised  him  that  the  seed  of  the  woman  should  bruise  the  ser- 
pent's head.  That  seed  was  Jesus  Christ,  and  that  woman  was  Afar}', 
His  mother.  After  the  fall  of  Adam,  Cod  instructed  His  children 
by  the  mouths  of  His  prophets,  and  those  prophets  foretold  the  com- 
ing of  Christ. 

"Jacob  is  the  first  of  these  prophets.  We  see  him  gather  around 
his  death-bed  his  twelve  children,  to  announce  to  them  their  destiny 
in  advance.  He  designates  Judah  as  the  father  of  the  Messiah.  From 
that  time  it  was  known,  that  in  this  tribe  would  be  born  the  Saviour 
of  men.  I'he  illustrious  patriarch  announced,  at  die  same  tinu', 
the  epoch  of  His  coming.  Moses  describes  Him  by  saying  that  He 
will  be  like  himself,  which  is  to  say,  the  mediator  of  a  new  alliance 


TlIK    rROPHECII'S. 


297 


with  Hod,  a  legislator,  a.  inophct,  and  a  worker  of  mirnrlcs.  The 
passion  of  the  .XFcssiah  is  adniirably  described  in  the  twenty-first  Psalm, 
wliicli  begins  with  the  very  words  that  Christ  uttered  on  the  cross : 
"  .\fy  God,  my  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me  !  "  and  contains  an 
enumeration  of  all  His  sufterings.  Ezekiel  announced  that  His  work 
would  be  weak  in  the  beginning,  and  would  afterwards  increase. 
Daniel  shows  the  church  to  us  under  the  emblem  of  a  little  stone, 
which  detaches  itself  from  a  mountain,  without  any  human  agency  ; 
but  al'  at  once  its  iiroportions  increase  to  such  an  exlent  that  it  be- 
comes a  substitute  for  the  Roman  empire,  which  disa^jpears  from  the 
effects  of  concussion  with  it.  It  struck  the  Colossus,  and  the  Colos- 
sus was  reduced  to  powder. 

"The  passion  of  Christ,  with  all  His  humiliations  and  all  His  suffer- 
ings, was  particularly  foretold  by  David,  Isaiah,  and  Zachariah.  They 
announced  that  the  Jews  would  not  recognize  Him  who  had  been  so 
ardently  desired  by  their  fiithers,  that  they  would  prove  towards  Him 
unfaithful,  ungrateful,  and  perfidious.  They  saw  that  He  would  be 
betrayed  and  sold,  that  they  would  spit  in  His  face,  that  He  would  be 
bufftted,  mocked,  afflicted  in  an  infinity  of  ways,  that  he  would  drink 
gall,  that  they  would  jiierce  His  hands  and  His  feet,  that  they  would 
put  Him  to  death,  and  that  they  would  cast  lots  for  His  garments. 
They  also  saw  that,  after  all  these  humiliations,  He  would  come  forth 
glorious  out  of  His  tomb  ;  that  kings  and  ])otentates  would  arm  and 
league  themselves  against  the  society  which  He  would  found ;  that, 
after  these  terrible  persecutions.  He  would  be  victorious  over  His 
enemies ;  that  the  kings  of  the  earth  and  all  the  peoples  would  adore 
Him  ;  while  the  ]ii\\%  still  continuing  to  deny  Him,  would  live  wan- 
dering and  dispersed  amidst  other  nations,  without  kings,  without  a 
prophet,  waiting  for  salvation,  but  finding  it  not. 

"The  mission  of  Christ  was  to  establish  a  church.  He  came  as 
an  instructor,  a  legislator,  and  a  ruler. 

"  Christ  is  the  Word  of  God,  and  is  God,  just  as  much  as,  and  more 
than,  your  own  understanding  is  of  the  very  essence  of  your  soul, 
and,  in  fact,  is  your  soul  understanding  itself  and  all  other  things, 
that  it  knows.  The  Son  of  God  is  the  Wisdom  of  God,  with  which 
the  Father  knows  Himself  and  all  things ;  and  the  Holy  Si)irit  is  the 
Love  of  the  Father  and  the  Son.  God  loved  the  world,  and  He 
sent  His  Son  to  teach  mankind,  by  word  and  example,  how  to  be- 
come His  children.  Christ  came  to  deliver  mankind  from  the  evils 
T3* 


3i  k      m 


IIV 


til '  li 

hi    :  ^1 

i  71-  ■  , 


298 


THE  MESSIAH. 


that  the  disobedience  of  our  first  parents  entailed  upon  us.  All  thostf 
who  were  born  before  His  coining  could  be  saved  only  through  tlie 
hope  of  His  coming,  and  by  living  in  obedience  to  the  law  of  nature, 
and,  in  the  case  of  the  Jews,  to  the  ceremonial  law  as  made  known 
to  them  by  Moses  their  legislator. 

"God  the  Son  took  to  himself  man's  nature  ;  but  His  personality 
is  necessarily  that  of  His  divine  nature.  On  earth  there  are  as  many 
persons  as  there  are  human  beings,  yet  there  is  but  one  abstract  hu- 
man nature.  In  the  Godhead  there  ai .  three  persons,  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.  These  are  one  in  nature,  not  merely  in 
some  abstract  ^ense,  but  in  concrete  being,  and  therefore  they  are  not 
only  perfectly  equal  in  all  things,  but  are  one  simple  Ik'ing. 

"  Jesus  came  to  establish  His  kingdom  on  earth.  The  Jews  were 
expecting  Him ;  for  the  time  had  come  for  the  Christ  to  appear,  as 
foretold  by  the  prophets.  He  came ;  but  the  Jews  did  not  recogni/.e 
Him,  because  of  their  avarice  and  pride,  which  blinded  them.  Most 
of  the  Jews  imagined  that  the  redemption  which  was  to  be  operated 
by  Christ  was  merely  terrestrial.  They  took  in  a  material  sense  the 
words  of  the  prophets,  and  believed  that  the  Messiah  would  deliver 
them  from  foreign  bondage,  and  would  estiblish  Israel  in  her  ancient 
splendor,  by  givin?  them  bark  their  liberties.  Others  expected  that 
he  would  come  arrayed  in  all  his  robes  of  celestial  grantleur ;  they 
were  not  willing  to  recognize  the  son  of  Joseph,  the  carpenter,  as 
the  One  who  was  to  deliver  them  from  the  chains  of  bondage.  On 
account  of  the  hardness  of  their  heart,  they  were  insensible  of  their 
real  bondage.  They  only  sought  to  be  delivered  of  the  yoke  that  the 
Roman  conquerors  had  im]X)sed  upon  them.  .  They  little  cared  to 
be  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  sin,  which  would  doom  them  to 
everlasting  punishment.  Christ  came,  that  their  eyes  miglit  be 
opened,  and  that  they  might  see  the  light  and  follow  it.  He  came 
to  found  His  kingdom  in  the  world.  His  kingdom  is  not  of  the 
world,  but  it  is  in  the  world.  Therefore  the  kingdom  which  Christ 
established  on  earth  is  a  real  thing,  but  not  a  state  creation,  nor 
an  engine  of  temporal  government.  That  kingdom  which  is  the 
mystical  body  of  Christ,  is  the  holy  Catholic  Church,  which  is  dis- 
l)ersed  througliout  the  whole  world,  and  is  governed  by  spiritual 
officers,  who  derive  their  title  and  their  i)ower  to  govern  it,  from  the 
express  grant  of  our  Lord  to  His  apostles. 

"It  was  on  the  occasion  of  His  eighth  apparition  after  His  resur- 


THE  KINGDOM   OF   GOD. 


299 


rection,  that  our  Lord  gave  His  apostles  this  title  to  govern  His 
kiiv'dom.  He  gives  them  to  understand  tliat  He  receives  His  au- 
thority from  God,  in  these  words, — 'AH  power  is  given  to  me  in 
Heaven  and  on  earth.'  Then  He  adds  :  'Go  therefore  and  teach 
all  nations.  Behold  I  am  with  you  all  days,  even  unto  the  end  of  the 
world.'  In  a  previous  apparition,  Jesus  designated  Peter  as  the 
chief  Shepherd,  and  He  gave  him,  by  this  title,  universal  and  sovereign 
power  which  extends  over  all  Christians.  Here  He  gives  to  all  His  ^ 
apostles  a  similar  but  subordinate  power  to  feed  His  sheep,  as  He 
gives  them  their  n}'ssion  to  teach  all  nations,  promising  to  be  with 
them  until  the  end  of  the  world.  After  Christ  pronounced  these 
words,  the  kingdom  of  Ciod  was  established.  But  the  kingdom  which 
He  founded  is  not  like  the  kingdom  of  the  world.  For  its  object 
is  not  the  possession  of  earthly  things  :  it  is  a  spiritual  kingdom,  which 
ought  to  exercise  its  power  over  minds  and  hearts. 

"  The  apostles  will  reign,  but  they  will  only  reign  by  the  power  of 
their  word,  by  teaching  nwn  what  they  ought  to  believe  and  practise. 
Their  dogmatic  teachings  will  enlighten  men's  minds,  while  their 
moral  precepts  will  regulate  their  wills.  This  kingdom  of  Christ  is  a 
universal  kingdom.  It  is  not  to  be,  like  Judaism,  enclosed  within 
tlie  limits  of  any  particular  country.  The  barriers  of  nationalit}'  are 
to  be  thrown  down  before  the  preaching  of  the  Gospel ;  and  this 
Gospel  is  to  be  announced  to  the  poor  as  well  as  to  the  rich,  to  the 
learned  as  well  as  to  the  illiterate,  to  the  gentiles  as  well  as  to  the 
Jews ;  for,  in  the  eyes  of  Christ,  and  of  His  disciples,  there  will  no 
longer  be — according  to  the  expression  of  St.  Paul — either  Greeks  or 
barbarians ;  all  mankind  will  be  as  one  family,  and  the  members  are 
to  have  the  same  right  to  a  celestial  inheritance.  This  kingdom  is  a 
perpetual  kingdom,  whose  duration  is  to  equal  that  of  Humanity. 
Jesus,  in  His  quality  of  Son  of  God,  rises  above  all  time  and  all 
space.  All  hunian  works  partake  of  the  infirmities  of  man  ;  for,  like 
him,  they  are  fragile  and  i)erishable.  But  the  work  of  Christ  should 
be  indefectible.  It  will  see  storms  and  hurricanes  hurl  themselves 
against  it ;  it  will  be  the  object  of  violent  persecutions  ;  but  Jesus 
])romised  His  apostles  that  they  should  triumph  over  all  obstacles, 

•and  that  His  church,  which  is  His  kingdom,  shall  last  until  the  con- 
summation of  ages." 

I  begged  the  cure  to  tell  me  what  proofs  he  could  give  that  Christ 

gave  to  the  Catholic  hierarchy  the  power  to  govern  His  kingdom, 


!i 


\\ 


300 


FORGIVENESS  OF  STNS. 


any  more   lIkih   He  did  the   Episcopalian   Chinch,   or    the   Churcif 
of  England.     Said  he  :  "  I  cannot  make  you  understand  that  until  I 
shall  have  proved  to  you  that  ours  is  the  only  true  church  ;  and  I  can- 
only  do  so  by  first  convincing  you  of  the  divine  authority  of  the  church- 

"  Christ  was  sent  by  God  :  therefore  He  received  His  authority 
from  God  ;  and  He  transmitted  His  authority  to  His  apoi^tles.  '  As 
the  Father  hath  sent  me,  so,'  said  He,  'I  send  you.'  (John  xx.  21.) 
He  was  speaking  to  His  apostles,  and  He  gave  that  i)ower  to  them — 
which  was  not  giving  it  to  ev<  ry  man  throughout  Judea, — and  they 
transmitted  the  authority  they  received  from  Christ  to  their  suc- 
cessors by  ordination  as  well  as  by  election.  He  also  gave  His 
apostles  the  power  to  remit  sin;  for,  after  His  resurrection,  He 
breathed  on  them,  saying,  '  Whose  sins  you  shall  forgive,  they  are  for- 
given ;  and  whose  sins  you  shall  retain,  they  are  retained.'  (John 
XX.  23.)  No  one  has  the  right  to  remit  sins  unless  he  receive  that 
power  from  the  successors  of  the  apostles,  and  we  know  by  historv 
and  tradition  that  we  Catholic  pri(;sts  albne  are  their  rightful  suc- 
cessors." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  I,  "how  it  is  done."  "Why,  God  makes  man  the 
instrument  of  His  power,  as  He  did  Moses  and  Aaron  :  the  absolu- 
tion is  given  by  the  priest,  but  the  grace  that  justifies  the  sinner  is 
given  by  God." 

"But,"  said  I,  "we,  dissenters,  look  upon  the  power  that  man  has 
to  forgive  sins  as  a  very  convenient  thing.  We  can  sin  as  much  as 
we  please  :  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  go  and  confess  it,  and  then  we 
are  absolved." 

"  How  little,"  he  replied  "  you  understand  our  religion.  Auricu- 
lar confession,  instead  of  promoting  sin,  is  the  most  powerful  help  to 
prevent  it.  A  priest  cannot  absolve  a  penitent,  unless  the  penitent, 
having  confessed  all  the  sins  he  is  conscious  of,  has  a  sincere  contri- 
tion and  a  determination  to  sin  no  more.  WMienever  the  penitent 
brings  to  the  confessional  these  conditions,  the  ])riest  grants  him  ab- 
solution, and  that  absolution  is  registered  in  heaven.  If,  however, 
the  penitent  has  not  these  conditions,  his  confession  and  the  absolu- 
tion of  the  priest,  instead  of  benefiting  him,  redound  to  his  greater 
condemnation.  Even  the  most  ignorant  Catholic  knows  that  he 
may,  indeed,  deceive  the  priest,  but  he  cannot  deceive  God.  And 
the  greatest  proof,"  added  the  cure,  "  I  can  give  you  that  the  con- 
fessioml   was  established  by  Christ,  when  He  snys  to  His  apostles, 


god's  instruments. 


301 


or    the  Churck 
and  that  until  I 
•'ch  ;  and  I  can- 
y  of  the  church. 
His  authority 
apostles.     'As 
(John  XX.  31.) 
ower  /o  them— 
lea,— and  they 
to  their  sue- 
also  gave   fiis 
surrection,   He 
e,  they  are  for- 
ained.'     (John 
he  receive  that 
now  by  history 
ir  rightful  suc- 

nakes  man  the 

11  :  the  absohi- 
Js  the  sinner  is 

■  that  man  has 
'in  as  much  as 
,  and  then  we 

ion.  Auricu- 
werful  help  to 

the  penitent, 
inccre  contri- 
'  the  penitent 
Tants  him  ah- 

If,  however, 
d  the  absolii- 
3  his  greater 
lows  that  he 
!  God.  Aful 
hat  the  con- 
lis  apostles, 


'Whose  sins  ye  forgive,  they  arc  forgiven;  and  whose  sins  ye  retain, 
they  are  retained,'  is  this  :  that  there  never  has  been  a  priest  known, 
no  matter  how  unworthy  he  may  have  been,  to  have  violated  the 
secrets  confided  to  him  in  the  confessional.  This  standing  miracle 
can  be  exi)lained  only  by  the  fact  that  God  continually  watches  over 
the  preservation  of  His  work." 

"  How,"  said  I,  "  can  a  bad  priest  remit  sin  ?  " 

*'  ]?y  that  power  which  he  receives  from  the  church,  and  which  the 
church  received  from  God.  The  right  and  effect  of  spiritual  i>ower 
can  be  compared  with  that  'f  temporal  power.  If  a  sovereign  state 
give  to  a  bad  man  the  powe.  >  forgive  certain  delinquents  their  mis- 
deeds, on  condition  that  they  make  a  stipulated  reparation,  and  the 
delinquents  comply  with  the  terms,'  the  pardon  they  receive  from  the 
bad  man  is  just  as  effectual  as  though  they  received  it  from  a  good 
man ;  for  this  agent  does  not  pardon  in  virtue  of  a  power  derived 
from  himself,  depending  on  his  own  individual  merits,  but  he  receives 
that  power  from  the  state.  So  in  the  case  of  the  priest :  although  he 
be  a  bad  man,  the  power  he  has  to  pardon  sins  is  given  to  him  by  the 
church,  and  it  was  given  to  the  church  by  God.  The  church  gives 
this  power  to  forgive  sinners,  after  they  make  a  proper  reparation, 
and  the  spiritual  reparation  consists  in  contrition,  confession,  and,  if 
possible,  a  satisfaction  for  the  offence,  and  a  sincere  determination  to 
do  right  in  future.  Jf  a  dishonest  judge  has  the  power  to  pardon  a 
malefactor,  what  difference  does  it  make  to  that  malefactor  whether 
the  judge  be  an  honest  man  or  not  ?  Therefore  all  sacraments  which 
are  administered  by  bad  priests  who  are  invested  with  authority,  are 
just  as  efHcacious  as  though  they  were  administered  by  saints.  It 
does  not  concern  the  sinner  what  the  priest  is  :  the  sinner  must  look 
to  his  own  case,  and  let  the  priest  attend  to  his." 


CHAPTER   LX. 

THE   POPE. 

"  The  Roman  Catholic  Church  never  defined  that  the  Pope  has 
authority  to  depose  princes,  or  to  dispense  us  from  our  allegiance  to 
lawful  sovereigns,  or   to  license  >ubjectfi  to  take  \ip   arms  againnt 


1  .!  :    41  i  1 


302 


HE  SHALL    LEAD   HIS  FLOCK. 


them.  On  the  contra:/,  our  church  constantly  teaches  our  Saviour's 
coninianci,  '  Render  to  Ctesar  what  belongs  to  Caesar.'  The  Poj^e  is 
superior  in  spiritual  matters,  but  not  in  temporal  things.  The  Vo[H 
may  interdict  and  excommunicate  princes,  even  Cajsar  himself;  bui 
it  is  not  a  part  of  our  belief  that  he  can  deprive  them  of  their 
tlirones."  "Suppose,"  said  1,  "  the  Pope  is  a  bad  man,  and  his  per- 
versity goes  so  far  that  he  tries  to  enforce  false  doctrines  on  his 
children?"  "That  would  be  imj)ossible,  on  account  of  Christ's 
promise  never  to  abandon  His  church.  When  Peter  made  his  pro- 
fession of  faith,  and  said  to  our  Saviour  that  He  was  the  Christ,  the 
Son  of  the  living  God,  Christ  answered  him,  that  flesh  and  blood 
could  not  have  revealed  this  to  him,  but  only  the  Spirit  of  God 
Then  Christ  said  to  him  :  'Thou  ait  Peter  (a  rock),  and  on  this  rock  1 
will  build  my  church,  and  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it.' 
And  again  :  '  behold  I  am  with  you  a//  days,  even  unto  the  end  of  the 
world.' 

"  Christ  then  made  a  solemn  promise  never  to  abandon  His  church." 
Said  I :  "  I  have  read  that  some  of  the  Popes  were  ambitious, 
licentious,  dishonest,  and  perjurers."  "  The  Popes  have  not  been 
worse  than  other  men,  and  notwithstanding  their  failings,  God  has 
never  failed  in  His  promises  to  His  church  and  to  Peter.  Christ 
promised  to  pray  for  Peter,  that  his  faith  might  not  fail ;  but  He  did 
not  promise  Peter  that  he  would  never  fall,  but  He  did  promise  that 
He  himself  would  ever  be  with  Peter,  and  his  successors,  and  the 
church  to  the  consummation  of  ages.  If  a  Pope  were  perverse 
enough  to  try  to  impose  false  doctrines  upon  the  faithful,  he  could  not, 
for  God  would  not  permit  him." 

"Can  you  believe  that?"  said  I.  "Believe  it,"  answered  he, 
"  certainly  I  believe  it.  Eighteen  centuries  have  passed,  and  not- 
withstanding the  many  vicissitudes  through  which  the  church  has 
passed,  the  doctrine  that  we  profess  to-day  is  the  very  same  that 
Christ  handed  down  to  His  apostles.  When  we  say  that  the  Pope  is 
infallible,  we  do  not  mean  that  he  cannot  sin.  But  when  he  speaks 
as  head  of  the  church,  we  assert  he  is  infallible.  Every  enlightened 
Catholic  believes  that  the  Pope  cannot  err  in  matters  which  i)ertain 
to  faith  and  morals."  "But  if  God  is  always  with  the  church,  why 
does  He  allow  bad  men  to  rise  to  the  Papacy  ?  "  "  To  prove  that  it 
is  His  own  power,  and  not  man's,  that  guides  the  bark  of  St.  Peter. 
The  glory  and  the  power  of  the  infallible  word  of  Christ  shine  forth 


If 


*-*.. 


A    SCRUPULOUS    MONARCH. 


303 


es  our  Saviour's 

The  Pope  is 

ngs.     The  Pop^ 

sar  himself;  bin 

them  of  their 

lan,  and  his  per- 

octrines  on  his 

'unt  of  Christ's 

er  made  his  pro- 

s  the  Christ,  the 

flesh  and  blood 

Spirit  of  God 

nd  on  this  rock  I 

)revail  against  it.' 

to  the  end  of  the 

don  His  church." 
were  ambitious, 
have  not  been 
tailings,  God  has 
:o  Peter.  Christ 
fail ;  but  He  did 
did  promise  that 
;cessors,  and  the 
i  were  perverse 
ful,  he  could  not, 

"  answered  he, 
passed,  and  not- 
the  church  has 
very  same  that 
that  the  Pope  is 
when  he  speaks 
^ery  enlightened 
rs  which  i)ertaiii 
the  church,  why 
fo  prove  that  it 
irk  of  St.  Peter, 
irist  shine  forth 


with  greater  lustre  when  the  faithful  see  a  miserable,  weali,  and  imper- 
fect man  at  the  head  of  the  church.  It  proves  to  us  that  God  is  there 
to  watch  over  her,  and  will  not  permit  the  faithful  to  be  led  astray  by 
hiiinan  weakness.  If  all  the  Popes  were  saints,  the  vitality  of  the 
chinch  would  not  be  so  striking  a  miracle  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  This 
preservation  of  the  church,  in  spite  of  the  weakness  and  blindness  of 
her  chiefs,  is  a  perpetual  miracle  which  non-Catholics  cannot  help  ad- 
miring, even  though  they  do  not  understand  it." 

THE    CHURCH    OF    ENGLAND. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  Episcopalians  are  a  branch  of  the  ..oly  Catho- 
lic Church,  are  they  not  ?  Their  litany  and  creed  are  the  same,  and 
they  have  many  things  in  common  with  you."  "What  of  that?" 
he  replied.  "  They  have  plucked  off  a  few  stray  leaves  from  the 
tree,  but  what  are  they  good  for  ?  The  moment  they  are  detached 
from  the  parent  stem  which  gave  them  life,  they  can  bear  no  fruit. 
Now  the  history  of  the  English  Church  can  be  told  in  a  very  few 
words,  for  it  dates  only  a  few  centuries  back. 

"The  Church  of  England  took  its  birth  from  Henry  VHL,  whom 
all  history  proclaims  to  have  been  a  most  licentious  and  unscrupulous 
monarch. 

"At  the  beginning  of  his  reign  Henry  was  the  stung  ally,  and  de- 
voted friend  of  the  Pope.  He  rendered  such  service  to  the  church, 
by  his  zeal  in  opposing  Lutheranism,  that  Pope  Julius  H.  gave  him 
the  title  of  Defender  of  the  Faith,  which  is  still  one  of  the  proudest  titles 
of  the  English  sovereigns,  and  appears  on  the  coins  of  the  realm. 
But  Henry  wanted  the  Pope  to  grant  him  a  bill  of  divorce,  alleging 
that,  as  Catherine  of  Aragon  was  his  brother's  widow,  his  conscience 
troubled  him  for  being  wedded  to  one  in  such  close  affinity,  and  he 
felt  that  it  was  unlawful  and  sinful.  The  Pojte  tried  to  quiet  the  con- 
science of  his  royal  ally.  But  this  irascible  monarch's  conscience 
refused  to  be  comforted,  and  he  at  last  demanded  a  writ  of  divorce, 
which  the  Pope  peremptorily  refused.  Henry  then  declared  that  he 
would  make  himself  Pope,  and  he  actually  did  proclaim  himself  head 
of  the  church  as  well  as  of  the  state.  He  sacrilegiously  invaded 
the  spiritual  domain  of  Christ's  Church,  and  dared  to  confer,  limit, 
and  withdraw  spiritual  jurisdiction. 

"  In  the  reign  of  his  virgin  daughter,  Elizabeth,  who  was  the  worthy 
daugiitcr  of  such  a  father,  the  people  began  to  murmur  about  the  en- 


?  s 


; 


*      I 


304 


AN   ENGLISH    SANHEDRIM. 


croachments  of  the  temporal  on  the  spiritual  power.  In  order  to 
stop  their  murmurings,  Parliament  passed  an  act  conferring  on  Eliza- 
beth the  same  right  of  spiritual  sui)reniacy  whicii  Henry  had  usurped. 
Their  reason  for  passing  such  an  act  was  that  'Henry  VHI.  had  had 
the  supreme  power,  jurisdiction,  order,  rule  and  authority  of  the 
estate  ecclesiastical.'  Thus  was  that  treason  against  high  heaven,  tl.>: 
robbery  of  the  spiritual  power,  api)arently  legalized  by  Elizabeth's 
time-serving  Parliament.  They  did  not  bring  forward  any  witnesses, 
nor  permit  any  discussion.  They  did  not  change  the  nature  of  the 
crime.  It  remained  stained  with  the  same  irregularities  which  it  can 
be  charged  with  from  the  beginning." 

I  cannot  help  calling  the  reader's  attention  to  the  remarkable 
resemblance  there  is  between  the  history  of  the  usurpation  of  the 
spiritual  power  by  the  English  crown,  and  the  trial  and  sentence  of 
death  of  our  Lord.  Our  !  ord  had  been  unjustly  seized,  and  dragged 
to  the  house  of  Annas,  and  from  thence  to  Caiphas,  where  he  was 
condemned  to  death.  They  were  fully  determined  to  put  this  sen- 
tence into  execution,  but  they  feared  lest  the  people  might  mur- 
mur and  raise  an  insurrection. 

In  order  to  give  their  proceedings  a  show  of  justice,  they  bring  the 
matter  before  the  Sanhedrim,  where  they  make  no  investigation 
into  the  case,  to  see  if  the  former  proceedings  had  been  legal  and 
just,  but  they  merely  confirm  what  had  already  been  determined ; 
and  when  the  grand  Sanhedrim  had  confirmed  the  sentence,  the  ])eo- 
ple  were  silenced :  they  were  overawed.  Now  it  was  but  a  repetition 
of  the  same  thing  in  England.  The  crown  had  already  unjustly  seized 
the  spiritual  power,  and  was.  determined  to  keep  it ;  but  the  people 
became  perplexed  and  doubtful.  To  silence  their  murmurings,  it 
was  necessary  to  give  a  show  of  justice  to  the  crime.  The  crown 
lays  it  before  Parliament  (which  can  be  comjiared  to  the  grand  San- 
hedrim), which,  without  investigating  the  legality  or  justice  of  Henry's 
assumption  of  spiritual  power,  merely  confirms  that  right  of  spiritual 
jurisdiction  in  the  throne,  just  because  it  descended  to  it  from  Henry 
VIH.  This  act  of  Parliament  overawed  and  silenced  the  English 
people,  just  as  the  sentence  of  the  grand  Sanhedrim  had  the  Jewish 
people.  It  is  an  illustration  of  the  truth,  "  History  repeats  itself" 
The  action  of  the  British  Parliament  in  this  matter  can  best  be  described 
in  the  words  which  expose  the  inijust  proceedings  of  the  Sanhedrim. 
(See,  Passion  of  our  Lord,  page  273.) 


:ifi^l 


"i^aai 


RELIGION    r.Y    STATUTE. 


305 


r.  In  order  to 
erring  on  lUiza- 
ry  had  usurped. 
'  VIJI.  li;ui  had 
uthority  of  the 
high  heaven,  tl.«; 
by  Ehzal)elh's 
i  any  witnesses, 
i  nature  of  the 
ies  which  it  can 

:he  remarkable 
inpation  of  the 
id  sentence  of 
;d,  and  dragged 
where  he  was 
o  put  this  sen- 
ile might  nuir- 

they  bring  the 
o  investigation 
been  legal  and 
:n  determined ; 
tence,  the  i)eo- 
but  a  rei)etition 
unjustly  seized 
but  the  people 
murnnirings,  it 
-.  The  crown 
the  grand  San- 
ice  of  Henry's 
ght  of  spiritual 

it  from  Henry 
'd  the  English 
lad  the  Jewish 
v/^rt/j  iist'//." 
St  be  described 
le  Sanhedrim. 


"  T/iis  was  done  to  silence  any  objection  that  the  multitude  might 
viake  against  the  irregularities,  etc.  There  was  neither  hearing  of 
witnesses  nor  discussion :  they  accepted  all  that  had  already  been 
done,  but  they  gave  it  a  legal  appearanck.  Consequently  the  pro- 
ceedings REMAINED  STAINED  xvith  the  same  irregularities  and  defects 
which  the  case  ca7i  be  charged  with  from  the  commencement."  It 
is  very  noteworthy  that  these  two  acts  of  the  civil  authority  bearing 
so  closely  upon  Christ  and  His  church,  should  present  so  striking  a 
resemblance. 

"  I  have  now  explained,"  continued  the  cure,  "  the  different  sources 
from  which  the  two  churches  derive  their  power.  The  Church  of  Eng- 
land received  it  from  Henry  Vin.,  who  usurped  spiritual  supremacy, 
and  his  usurped  power  was  continued  to  Elizabeth  by  a  body  of  men 
called  a  Parliament.  I5ut  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  received  its 
power  from  Christ,  and  the  men  who  received  that  power  from  Him 
confirmed  their  right  to  it,  by  sealing  it  with  their  blood.  Many  of 
the  English  people  believe  that  the  P^nglish  Church  derives  its  power 
from  their  Bishops.  But  they  can  appeal  from  their  Bishops  to  the 
crown,  which  shows  that  the  crown  is  their  head,  and  source  of  spirit- 
ual jurisdiction.  Of  course  they  are  not  willing  to  admit  the  real  state 
of  things  as  existing  among  them,  viz.  :  that  the  civil  power  is  made 
the  root  and  source  of  spiritual  jurisdiction  ;  but  all  lawyers  are  agreed 
that  such,  as  far  as  law  goes,  is  the  actual  constitution  of  the  Church 
of  England.  When  doctrines  are  disputed  within  the  English  Church, 
the  same  authority  which  sits  as  a  Board  of  Trade  will  pronounce  as 
a  Hoard  of  Doctrine.  For,  what  is  the  supreme  tribunal  in  the  affairs 
of  the  Church  of  England  ?  The  Privy  Council.  And  what  is  this 
tribunal  ?  This  court  is  in  its  constitution  in  exact  accordance 
with  the  original  statute  25  Henry  VI II.,  c.  19,  which  consum- 
mated the  schism  and  by  which  the  ecclesiastical  causes  of  the 
church  and  the  realm  of  England  were  governed  and  decided  from 
the  days  of  King  Henry  (except  that  it  was  repealed  in  1554,  and  re- 
vived in  1559)  to  those  of  William  the  Fourth  :  It  runs  thus:  'IV. 
And  for  lack  of  justice  at  or  in  any  of  the  courts  of  the  Archbishops 
of  this  realm,  or  in  any  of  the  king's  dominions,  it  shall  bo  lawful  for 
the  parties  grieved  to  a[)peal  to  the  king's  majesty  in  the  king's  Court 
of  Chancery  ;  and  that  upon  every  such  appeal  a  commission  sliall 
be  directed  under  the  Great  Seal  to  such  persons  as  shall  be  named 


3oC 


BOARD  OF  TRADE  AND  DOCTRINE. 


by  the  king's  highness,  his  heirs,  or  successors,  like  as  in  case  of  ap. 
peal  from  the  Admiral's  Court,  to  hear  and  defmitively  determine 
such  appeals,  and  the  causes  concerning  the  same.  Which  coniinis- 
sioners,  so  by  the  king's  highness,  his  heirs  or  successors,  to  be  named 
or  appointed,  shall  have  full  power  and  authority  to  hear  and  defi- 
nitively determine  every  such  appeal,  with  the  causes  and  all  cir- 
cumstances concerning  the  same.  And  that  such  judgment  or  sen- 
tence as  the  said  commissioners  shall  make  and  decree,  in  and  u[)on 
any  such  appeal,  shall  be  good  and  efifectual  and  also  definitive  ;  and 
no  further  appeals  to  be  had  or  made  from  the  said  commissioners  for 
the  same.' 

"  The  utter  absence  of  all  title  to  apostolicity  must  be  fatal  to  any 
claim  of  the  Church  of  England  to  be  considered  a  part  or  branch 
of  the  true  church  of  Christ.  The  links  in  the  chain  of  succession  to 
Peter  and  the  apostles  have  been  broken ;  as  may  easily  be  jjroved, 
not  merely  by  the  '  Nag's  Head'  story,  but  also  by  radical  defects 
of  form  and  intention  in  the  conferring  of  orders,  even  at  a  later 
period.  But  even  if  the  consecration  of  those  bishops  were  valid, 
still  they  could  have  no  jurisdiction  after  denying  the  authority  of  the 
Chief  Pastor,  the  successor  of  Peter.  By  sepaiating  from  the  centre 
of  unity  those  unfortunate  men  lost  all  right  and  power  to  watch  over 
or  guide  any  portion  of  the  flock  which  Christ  bade  Peter  to  feed." 


E. 


as  in  case  of  ap- 
tivcly  determine 

^Vllich  coiiimis- 
ors,  to  bo  named 
o  hear  and  dcfi. 
ses  and  all  cir- 
iidgment  or  sen- 
ree,  in  and  upon 

definitive  ;  and 
)nnnissioner.s  for 


t  be  fatal  to  any 

part  or  branch 

of  succession  to 

asily  be  jjroved, 

radical  defects 

even  at  a  later 

lops  were  valid, 

authority  of  the 

from  the  centre 

er  to  watch  over 

eter  to  feed." 


ii 


Ill 


il 


iw 


it      * 


iil-      i:^ 


"J 

1 

i 

THK   MYSTERY    OV   LOVE, 


307 


CHArTER  LXI. 


THK    MIRACLE    OF    MIRACLES. 


i*e 


The  dogma  of  Catholic  faith  which  in  those  days  appeared  to  nie 
most  absurd  and  superstitious  was  the  doctrine  of  the  real  presence 
of  Tesus  Christ  in  the  eucharist.  1  asked  the  curt'  to  give  me  some 
explanation  of  that  mystery.  His  proofs  and  arguments  made  me 
see  with  a  new  light  that  incomprehensible  miracle  of  Christ's  love. 
"  In  fiict,"  said  he,  "  there  is  no  dogma  taught  in  clearer  or  more  un- 
mistakable words.  Jesus  Christ  says,  '  1  am  the  bread  of  life.'  (John  vi. 
35  and  48.)  '1  am  the  living  bread  which  came  down  from  heaven : 
if  any  man  eat  of  this  bread  he  shall  live  forever ;  and  the  bread 
vhich  I  will  give  is  my  flesh,  for  the  life  of  the  world.'  (John  vi.  51, 
52.)  '  Unless  you  eat  the  flesh  of  tlie  Son  of  Man,  and  drink  his 
blood,  you  shall  not  have  life  in  you.  He  that  eateth  my  flesh,  and 
(Iriiiketh  my  blood,  hath  everlasting  life ;  and  I  will  raise  him  up  at 
the  last  day.  For  my  flesh  is  meat  indeed,  and  my  blood  is  drink 
indeed.  He  that  eateth  my  flesh,  and  drinketh  my  blood,  abideth  in 
mo,  and  I  in  him.  As  the  living  Father  hath  sent  me,  and  1  livo  by 
the  Father ;  so  he  that  eateth  me,  the  same  also  shall  live  by  me.' 
(John  vi.  54,  58.)  Here  you  see  in  plain  words  what  we  believe  on 
the  subject  of  the  eucharist.  We  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the 
living  bread,  the  food  of  our  immortal  souls.  (John  vi.  35,  48.)  We 
believe  that  we  must  feed  on  the  sacred  flesh  and  blood  of  Christ,  in 
order  to  obtain  eternal  life.   (John  vi.  54,  55.) 

"  Non-Catholics  say  they  cannot  understand  the  real  presence,  and 
therefore  will  not  believe  it.  Now  it  is  the  height  of  foolishness  to 
pretend  that  everjthing  must  be  reduced  to  the  proportions  of  our 
narrow  understanding.  It  is  silly  to  have  so  much  confidence  in  our- 
selves and  so  little  in  God.  It  is  as  easy  for  God  to  conceal  His 
sacred  flesh  and  blood,  under  the  forms  or  appearances  of  bread  and 
wine,  as  it  is  for  Him  to  conceal  His  glorious  divinity,  although  every- 
where present,  from  our  eyes.  Christ  came  to  instruct  us,  and  not 
to  deceive  us.  When  He  saw  that  the  Jews  were  shocked,  and  asked, 
'  How  can  this  man  give  us  his  flesh  to  eat  ? '  was  not  this  the  op- 
portunity to  undeceive  them,  and  to  explain,  if  He  did  not  mean  what 


i:!illl 


308 


CHRIST  S   OWN    MEMORIAL. 


He  said.  Instead  of  this,  wo  find  Jcsus,  after  a  double  amen,  wliich 
means  truly,  insisting  no  less  than  six  times  in  the  most  nnc(iiiiv()tal 
manner  npon  the  necessity  of  receiving  His  llesh  and  blood.  We 
fnul  St.  Paul  (i  (.'or.  .\i.  29)  condenming  the  unworthy  receiver  fur 
not  discerning  the  Lord's  body.  Surely  we  could  not  be  reijuircd  lo 
discern  the  body  of  Christ,  were  it  not  in  the  eucharist. 

"'riieCinirch  does  not  teach  that  that  which  strikes  the  senses 
changes  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  says  that  the  exterior  form,  the  appear 
ance  of  the  bread  and  the  wine,  are  preserved  after  the  words  of  ton 
secration  ;  that  the  substance  alone  is  changed.    The  senses  can  only 
conceive  its  qualities,  its  attributes,  and  its  accidents,  but  not  the 
substance.     Non-Catholics  admit  the  existence  of  (Jod,  yet  they  have 
never  seen  Him  ;  and  they  disbelieve  the  mystery  of  the  Eucharist, 
just  because  they  cannot  see  with  their  eyes  the  substance  of  the 
body  of  Jesus  Christ,  when  everybody  knows  that  substances  are  in- 
visible. 

"  The  Catholic  Church,  the  divinely  constituted  depositary  and  ex- 
pounder of  God's  Word,  affirms  that  when  Jesus  said,  '  This  is  my 
body,  this  is  my  blood,'  He  meant  just  what  He  said.  And  He  pro- 
nounced those  words  on  the  vigil  of  His  death  :  making  His  testa- 
mentary dispositions,  He  bequeathed  to  us  a  treasure  worthy  of  a 
God. 


Mm 


^  { 


i  !1    ii  '' 


THE    MASS. 

I  asked  him  to  fully  explain  to  me  the  Mass,  and  how  it  originated, 
for  I  had  always  heard  the  sacrifice  of  the  mass  ridiculed  and  scoffed 
at  in  my  country.  It  appeared  to  the  Protestants,  and  so  it  did  to 
myself,  like  mi'.:nmery,  to  see  so  much  parade  at  the  altar,  and  when 
watching  the  ditTerent  movements  and  gestures  of  the  priest,  we 
looked  upon  the  whole  ceremony  as  savoring  of  superstition. 

Said  he  :  "  It  appears  like  mummery  and  superstition  only  to  those 
who  are  totally  ignorant  of  the  Bible  and  its  teachings.  The  mass 
is  a  sacrifice,  or  offering  of  the  body  and  blood  of  Christ,  under  the 
species  of  bread  and  wine.  It  was  instituted  by  Christ,  at  His  last 
supper,  and  its  end  was  that  the  sacrifice  of  the  cross  might  be  daily 
represented  before  our  eyes,  and  the  memory  of  it  ever  continue,  so 
that  the  blessed  fruits  thereof  might  be  continually  imparted  to  us. 

"  The  priest,  when  he  says  mass,  represents  the  person  of  Christ,  and 
it  is  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  as  His  minister,  that  he  offers 


"i    :! 


'■  t 


TITK    rKKPETUAL   SACRIFICE. 


3og 


ublc  ainen,  which 
most  iii)c(|iiiv(,tal 
and  blood.  ]\\. 
■ortliy  receiver  fur 
lot  be  reciiiircd  to 
irist. 

strikes  the  senses 
form,  the  appear 
the  words  of  con- 
le  senses  can  only 
ents,  but  not  the 
'od,  yet  they  have 
of  tlie  Eucharist, 
substance  of  the 
substances  are  in- 

lepositary  and  ex- 
said,  '  I'liis  is  my 
id.  And  He  pro- 
baking  His  testa- 
isure  worthy  of  a 


how  it  originated, 
-uled  and  scoffed 
,  and  so  it  did  to 
■  altar,  and  when 
!"  the    priest,  we 
jrstition. 
ion  only  to  those 
iigs.     Tlie  mass 
'hrist,  under  the 
rist,  at  His  last 
'  might  be  daily 
'er  continue,  so 
parted  to  us. 
)n  of  Christ,  and 
r,  that  he  offers 


this  sacrifice.  The  word^  of  the  consecration  are  a  jiroof  of  it ;  for 
the  iiriest  does  not  say,  '  This  is  the  liody  of  Jesus  Christ,'  but  spcak- 
iiii'  in  the  person  of  Jesus  Christ,  who  is  tlie  Sovereign  Pontiff,  who 
oft'ers  this  sacrifice,  he  says:  'This  is  my  body.'  That  is  wliy 
David  and  St.  Paul  call  Him  a  ]jriest  forever,  according  to  the  order 
of  Mclchisedech.  Now  it  would  be  incorrect,  to  call  Him  a  jiriest 
forever,  if  He  offered  up  only  the  sacrifice  on  Calvary  ;  but  He  is 
jHoperly  called  so,  because  He  offers  a  perpetual  sacrifice  to  God, 
and  He  will  not  cease  to  offer  it  up  to  Him  until  the  end  of  time. 

"While  men  were  seeking  to  put  our  Lord  to  death,  He  sought  to 
give  them  life;  and,  in  order  to  place  it  in  their  power  to  receive  life 
through  Him,  He  left  to  His  spouse,  the  visible  Church,  a  visible  sac- 
rilice,  which  is  the  offering  of  the  very  same  Divine  Victim  under  an- 
other form.  This  adorable  mystery  is  a  sacrament  and  a  sacrifice. 
It  is  a  sacrifice,  inasmuch  as  it  is  offered  up  to  (iod  by  the  priest.  Yea, 
it  is  the  very  sacrifice  foretold  by  the  prophet  Malachy  :  '  From  the 
rising  of  the  sun  to  the  going  down  thereof  my  name  is  great  among 
the  Gentiles,  and  in  every  place  thert  is  offered  up  in  my  name  a 
clean  oblation.'  {Malach.  i.  ir.)  After  the  consecration,  and  as 
long  as  the  consecrated  particles  exist,  they  constitute  the  sacrament 
of  the  Eucharist. 

"  As  a  sacrament,  the  Eucharist  is  salutary  to  him  who  receives  it ;  it 
confers  on  him  sancti tying  grace  and  the  other  advantages  which  are 
specially  attached  to  this  sacrament,  while,  as  a  sacrifice,  it  is  not 
only  salutary  to  the  priest  who  receives  it,  but  also  to  all  those  for 
whom  it  is  offered.  And  as  the  priest,  in  saying  mass,  offers  up  this 
sacrifice  for  himself  and  others,  in  the  same  way  may  those  present 
offer  it  up  for  themselves  and  for  others.  As,  when  a  city  sends  a 
present  to  a  prince,  by  deputies,  all  the  inhabitants  have  a  share  in 
the  offering,  although  there  is  but  one  among  them  who  speaks  ;  so, 
in  the  sacrifice  of  the  mass,  although  there  is  only  the  ])riest  who 
speaks,  and  who  .offers  the  sacrifice,  all  those  who  assist  have  a 
siiare  in  the  offering, 

"  The  mass  is  a  jjropitiatory  sacrifice.  The  deaf,  the  dumb,  and  the 
blind  can  take  part  in  it,  just  as  well  as  the  most  perfect  and  learned 
and  enlightened.  The  sacrifice  of  the  mass  is  the  only  form  of  wor- 
ship on  earth,  in  which  all  hearts  and  souls  can  join.  Ciod  is  all 
justice,  all  goodness,  all  mercy  !  He  foresaw  the  wants  and  needs 
OJ  every  soul,  no  matter  how  abject  the  body  which  contained   it 


310 


MYSTIC   SYMBOLISM. 


might  be  ;  and  He  instituted  a  mode  of  worship,  in  which  th« 
learned,  the  unlearned,  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  and  the  blind  could  join, 
when  they  meet  together  in  His  sanctuary  to  oucr  ♦■n  Him  accei)tab!e 
worship.  The  mass,  as  a  sacrifice  and  a  devotion,  has  all  that  can 
satisfy  every  heart,  and  can  give  peace  to  every  soul. 

"There  is  not  a  v.'ord,  an  action,  or  a  ceremony  at  the  mass  which 
does  not  signify  some  holy  and  mysterious  thing.  The  vestnicnts  in 
which  the  piiest  is  robed,  and  the  ornaments  that  cover  the  altar, 
have  all  a  mysterious  signification.  The  vestments  worn  at  mass  are 
to-day  substantially  the  same  as  those  worn  by  the  people  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago.  The  church  desires  to  assimilate  the  sameness 
of  her  customs  to  the  unchangeableness  of  her  doctrines. 

"  As  the  priest,  in  saying  mass,  represents  the  person  of  Christ,  who 
is  the  high-priest  of  the  new  law,  and  the  mass  itself  represents  His 
passion,  therefore  the  priest  puts  on  these  garments  to  represent 
those  with  which  Christ  was  ignominiously  clothed  at  the  time  of  His 
passion.  Thus,  for  instance,  the  amice  represents  the  rag  or  cloth 
with  which  the  Jews  blindfolded  our  Saviour,  when,  at  every  blow, 
they  bade  him  prophesy  who  it  was  that  struck  Him.  Tlie  alb 
represents  the  white  garment  with  which  He  was  vested  by  Herod. 
The  girdle,  maniple,  and  stole  represent  the  cords  and  bands  with 
which  He  was  bound  in  the  different  stages  of  His  passion.  The 
chasuble,  or  outward  vestment,  represents  the  purple  garment  with 
which  He  was  clothed  as  a  mock  king ;  upon  the  back  of  which  there 
is  a  cross,  to  represent  that  which  Christ  bore  on  His  sacrctl 
shoulders  ;  lastly,  the  priest's  tonsure,  or  crown,  is  to  represent  the 
CiOwn  of  thorns  which  our  Saviour  wore. 

'*  As  in  the  old  law,  the  priests  diat  were  to  officiate  at  the  sacrcil 
functions,  had,  by  the  appointment  of  Cod,  vestments  assigned  for 
that  purpose,  as  well  for  the  greater  decency  and  solemnity  of  the 
divine  wors'iip,  as  to  signify  and  to  represent  the  virtues  which  God 
required  in  them  :  so  it  is  in  the  law  of  grace.  Thus  the  amico, 
which  is  first  put  upon  the  head,  represents  divine  hope,  which  the 
apostle  calls  the  helmet  of  salvation  ;  the  alb,  innocence  of  life  ;  the 
girdle,  with  which  the  loins  are  begirt,  i)urity  and  patient  suffering ; 
the  stole,  the  sweet  yoke  of  Christ  to  be  borne  in  this  life,  in  order  to 
obtain  a  happy  immortality  in  the  next ;  in  fine,  the  chasuble,  which, 
as  uppermost,  covers  all  the  rest,  the  virtue  of  charity.  The  lighted 
candles  denote  the  light  of  faith,  with  which  we  are  to  a[)proach  God." 


AN   INSTRUMENT   OF   DESPOTISM. 


3U 


P>   in  which  th« 

I^HiuI  could  join, 

^'■'11  acceptable 

iias  all  that  can 


t  the  mass  whidi 
riie  vestments  in 
cover  the  altar, 
^vorn  at  mass  are 
people  eighteen 
ate  the  sameness 
nes. 

5n  of  Christ,  who 
If  represents  His 
nts   to  represent 
:  the  time  of  His 
the  rag  or  cloth 
at   every  blow, 
Him.     The  alb 
steel  by  Herod 
and  bands  with 
s  passion.     'I'he 
le  garment  with 
k  of  which  then; 
on    His   sacred 
J  represent  the 

e  at  the  sacred 
ts  assigned  for 
)lemnity  of  the 
lies  which  God 
'his  the  amice, 
lope,  which  the 
ice  of  life  ;  the 
tient  suffering ; 
iTe,  in  order  to 
lasiiLle,  which, 
The  lighted 
>proach  Goil." 


CHAPTER   LXII. 

THE    INQUISITION.* 

The  horrible  and  unjust  cruelties  of  the  Inquisition,  of  which  I 
had  read  in  Prescott's  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  made  me 
at  one  lime  abhor  the  Catholic  Church  as  the  foundress  and  patroness 
of  that  fearful  tribunal.  It  has  been  said  that  many  theologians,  and 
even  canonized  saints,  have  defended  the  atrocities  of  the  Inquisition. 
It  is  true  that  some  great  authorities  in  the  Catholic  Church  have 
maintained  that,  as  it  is  a  greater  crime  to  corrupt  the  faith  and  drag 
down  souls  to  damnation  than  corrupt  the  coin  of  the  realm,  it  is 
deserving  of  a  greater  punishment.  Hut  it  is  also  a  fact  that  St. 
Bernard  thought  otherwise  ;  and  many  other  lights  of  the  church  also 
continued,  like  the  ancient  fathers,  to  protest  against  the  punishment 
of  death  being  intlicted  on  heretics. 

The  enemies  of  Catholicity  try  to  make  the  world  believe  that  the 
Spanish  Inciuisition  was  an  ecclesiastical  tribunal ;  but  that  is  false, 
for  the  Tribunal  of  the  Inquisition  in  Spain  was  purely  royal.  It 
was  the  king  who  ap])ointed  the  Inquisitor-General,  who  in  his  turn 
nominated  the  councillors,  subject  to  the  approval  of  the  king.  The 
rules  for  this  tribunal  were  issued  in  the  year  1484,  by  Cardinal  Tor- 
quemada,  in  concert  with  the  king.  In  the  same  manner  the  Ultra- 
Liberal  Cortes  of  1812  expressed  themselves  :  "The  Spanish  kings 
have  always  rejected  the  advice  given  to  iheiP.  against  the  Inquisition, 
because  they  could,  in  all  cases  and  at  pleasure,  nominate,  suspend 
or  remove  the  councillors." 

Charles  V.,  who  loved  absolute  power,  recommended  the  Inquisi- 
tion warmly  to  his  successor  in  his  will,  that  he  might  1!E  able 

PKOl'ERI.Y   TO    DISCHARGE    HIS    DUTV    AS    SOVEREIGN. 

It  was  a  royal  tribunal  furnished  with  spiritual  arms.  The  inc^uisi- 
tors  were  royal  officials,  for  the  king  had  a  right  to  appoint  and 
dismiss  them.  The  ]>rofits  from  the  confiscation  of  this  tribunal  went 
to  the  king.  The  proceeds  of  these  confiscations  formed  a  sort  of 
regular  revenue  for  the  ro)al  treasury. 

*  Most  of  the  facts  that  I  give  hero  in  r<';;ard  iu  the  Inquisition,  1  have  taken  fruin  the  writings 
of  Helile  and  Archbisliop  Spalding. 


?!f 


f ''  J  i ' 


THE   SPIRIT   OF  THE   AGE. 


The  Spanish  Inquisition  was  so  closely  connected  with  political 
absolutism,  that  it  was  one  of  its  most  powerful  weapons,  and  the 
Inquisition  was  necessarily  comi)elled  to  die  as  soon  as  the  absolute 
power  of  the  monarch  vanished,  and  when,  on  the  return  of  Kenlinand 
VII.,  in  the  year  1814,  the  old  monarchy  was  re-establislicd,  the 
Incjuisition  was  immediately  revived  to  keep  down  the  demagogues; 
but  as  soon  as  Ferdinand,  in  the  year  1820,  had  been  comijellcd  to 
grant  again  a  constitution,  the  Incjuisition  was  once  more  suppressed. 
Similar  events  happened  in  Portugal  and  other  states — the  Incjuisi- 
tion stood  and  fell  with  political  absolutism. 

The  Inquisition  has  often  been  unjustly  judged  according  to  the 
principles  of  the  nineteenth  century,  instead  of  those  of  the  lifteeiith 
and  sixteenth.  A\'hilst  many  for  the  last  hundred  years  and  more 
have  been  inclined  to  see  in  heretics  and  infidels  of  all  kinds  the 
most  enlightened  and  honorable  citizens  of  the  state,  the  Inquisi- 
tion, in  direct  opposition  to  this  way  of  thinking,  was  based  on  the 
opinions  of  the  middle  ages,  according  to  which  heresy  was  high 
treason,  and  only  such  subjects  were  safe  and  worthy  of  confidence 
as  conformed  to  the  religion  of  the  state. 

It  is  natural  that  the  defenders  of  modern  ideas  should  be  unable 
to  appreciate  and  judge  impartially  facts,  which  tuul  their  explanation 
in  the  theories  of  former  ages,  if  they  are  unable  to  divest  themselves 
of  the  ideas  of  the  present  time.  Every  true  historian  does  this. 
Hut  the  Inquisition  has  mostly  been  described  by  such  writers  as 
tried  to  substitute  mere  words  and  assertions  for  sound  and  consci- 
entious research,  gave  romantic  descriptions  for  real  facts,  and  hid 
their  want  of  absolute  knowledge  under  liberal  phrases.  Persons  of 
this  kind  understood,  of  course,  not  the  maxim — Cujus  est  regie 
illus  est  religio — (The  religion  of  the  king  is  the  religion  of  the  land) 
— on  which  the  whole  Inquisition  is  based,  and  wliich  formerly  was 
thoroughly  and  universally  recognized  and  so  little  contested  tliat 
Protestants  in  particular  have  defended  it  and  carried  it  into  practice. 

The  Palatinate  may  serve  as  an  example.  Here  the  IClector 
Frederick  III.,  who  had  been  a  I^ullieran,  after  having  turned  Calvin- 
ist  in  the  year  1563,  forced  ill  his  ^^  l)jects  to  do  the  same  ;  and  ex- 
pelled from  his  country  all  who  w<Mnd  not  adopt  tiie  Heidelberg 
Catechism.  Thirteen  years  later,  in  the  year  1576,  his  son  Ludwig 
re-establisiied  the  old  Lutheran  confession,  drove  away  the  Calvin 
istic    preachers   and   teachers,  and  forced    his   subjects   to   become 


REFORMED   INQUISITORS. 


313 


fed  with  political 
■'^apons,  and  the 
Ji  as  the  absolute 
jiini  of  Kenlinaiicl 
p-establishcd,  th- 
Jhe  clonia-()o„e.s ; 
I'cii  comiudicd  to 
jnore  suppressed. 
|tcs— the  IiKjiiisi. 

according  to  the 
-  of  the  fifteenth 
years  and  more 
of  all  kinds  the 
'te,  the  Iniiuisi- 
)ased  on  the 
eresy  was  high 
ly  of  confidence 


LS 


lould  be  unable 
leir  explanation 
ivest  themselves 
)iian   does   this, 
such  writers  as 
ind  and  consci- 
1  Tacts,  and  hid 
;s.     Persons  of 
'iijus  est  regio 
111  of  the  land) 
!i  formerly  was 
contested  that 
t  into  practice. 
e    the   Elector 
turned  Calviii- 
^ame  ;  antl  e.\- 
le   MeidelberL; 
is  son  Luduig 
^y  the  Cah  in 
s    to    become 


Lutherans  again.  Ill  15S3,  the  P'lector  John  Casinn'r,  in  his  office  of 
guardian  to  Frederick  IV.,  introduced  Calvinism  once  more,  and  with 
ecjual  severity;  so  that  the  Palatinate  has  sutficiently  experienced  that 
conformity  to  the  religion  of  the  state  and  court  was  enforced  not  in 
Spain  only,  and  by  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  but  also  in  Cermany  and 
by  Protestant  princes,  and  that  the  severest  civil  punishments  were 
inflicted  by  them  upon  dissenters. 

Spain  has  indeed  not  acted  otherwise  than  the  lAitherans  and  Cal- 
vinists  in  Cermany.  The  Peace  of  Religion  concluded  at  Augsburg, 
26th  Sept.,  T555,  gives  in  paragrajih  24,  to  every  state  of  the  empire 
full  powers  to  put  to  their  subjects  the  alternative  either  of  adopting 
the  religion  of  the  state  or  emigrating,  on  payment  of  a  certain  hue; 
just  as  the  Jews  and  Moors  were  treated  in  Spain. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  it  was  worse  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  Spanish  Inquisition  or  into  those  of  a  zealous  Lutheran  prince. 
It  is  further  often  forgotten,  in  judging  of  the  Inquisition,  tliPt  the 
criminal  law  of  those  days  was  more  cruel  and  bloody  than  that  of 
the  i)resent  century.  Many  offences  which  are  now  punished  'ut 
slightly,  called  formerly  for  blood. 

Put  to  place  it  (juite  out  of  doubt  that  the  Protestants  themselves 
of  those  times  wished  to  have  capital  punishment  inflicted  upon 
heretics,  it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  to  the  "//«'A/"  Melancthon,  who 
wrote  to  Calvin,  "  /  //a7'e  read  the  book  in  whieh  thou  hast  fully  re- 
futed the  horrible  blasphemies  of  Servetus,  and  thank  the  Son  of  the 
Lord  for  havini^  aivarded  thee  the  victory  in  the  contest  thon  hast  sus- 
tained. The  church  owes  thee  now  and  fore'oer  eternal  p-atitude  for 
this.  I  quite  agree  with  thy  opinion,  and  maintain  that  thy  tribunal 
hath  acted  in  accordance  with  justice,  in  ha7'ing,  after  due  in7'estiga- 
tion,  put  to  death  a  blasphemer.'^ 

Pesides  Servetus,  many  others,  for  instance  Valentine,  (lentilis, 
Bolsec,  Carolstadt,  Castello,  Judge  Ameaux,  by  their  imi)risonment, 
banishment,  or  death,  learned  that  the  Incjuisition  of  the  Protestant 
church  was  not  less  severe  than  that  of  S|)ain.  liut  there  is  no  need 
of  going  back  so  far  as  the  sixteenth  century,  or  even  of  recalling  the 
horrible  atrocities  conunitted  against  the  Catholics  in  England,  to  lind 
the  counterpart  of  the  S|)anish  Incpiisition  among  the  J'rotestants. 
And  let  it  be  remembered  here  that  Protestants  never  miiintaii  ed 
that  theirs  was  a  certain  religion,  the  only  true  religion,  the  fa'th 
necessary  for  salvation  :  they  killed  men  for  not  believing  an  opinion 
14 


K-i 


i..;  'ii,4,' 


314 


A   PREJUDICED   HISTORIAN. 


M 

1, 

•i'i 

tii 

111 

m 

u 


People  dwell  on  the  tortures  and  torments  of  all  kinds  which 
prisoners  were  .uibjected  to  in  the  prisons  of  the  Inquisition.  But 
let  those  who  shu-'lder  at  the  bare  mention  of  them  remember  that 
the  torture  in  those  days  was  used  nv  all  civil  courts  of  at,l 
COUNTRIES — that  it  legally  existed  in  many  German  states  as  Late  as 
the  present  century.  Archbishop  Spalding's  criticism  of  Prescott's 
I'^erdinand  and  Isabella  did  more  to  remove  my  anti-Catholic  preju- 
dices on  the  subject  of  the  Inquisition  than  all  the  instruction  I  re- 
ceived from  any  other  source. 

Speaking  of  Mr.  Prescott,  he  says  that  that  gentleman  was  greatly 
under  the  influence  of  anti-Catholic  prejudices,  as  can  be  inferred 
from  the  whole  tenor  of  the  chapter  on  the  hnpiisition,  "which  is,  in 
fact  as  virulent  a  libel  upon  Catholicity  as  we  have  ever  chanced  to 
read."  "  To  prove,"  says  the  Archbishop,  "  that  the  establishment  of 
the  Si)anish  Inquisition  was  in  accordance  with  the  principles  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  Mr.  Prescott  repeats  the  stale  cahunny  that  a 
Catholic  principle  is  embodied  in  the  odious  proposition,  '  The  cud 
justifies  the  means.' 

"  In  opposition  to  all  history,  Mr.  Prescott  asserts  that  St.  l^ominick 
was  the  founder  of  the  ancient  Inquisition,  or  at  least  maintains  that 
if  he  was  not,  in  point  of  fact,  lie  ought  to  have  been.  He  tells  in 
a  satirical  tone,  o,"  the  divine  eloquence  and  wonderful  miracles  by 
which  St.  Vii  cen;  Ferrer,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  converted  to 
(Christianity  thu't}-five  thousand  S[)anish  Jews.  The  suffering  of  this 
unfortunate  people  enlist  his  deepest  sympathy;  the  Moors  of  Cran- 
ada  have  also  his  warmest  feelings  of  pity  ;  these  two  people  ^eem  to 
have  exhausted  his  stock  of  humanity,  and  he  has  no  sympathy  to 
throw  away  on  the  Catholic  Christians  of  Sjjain.  Nor  is  he  alone  in 
this  respect.  It  is  the  fault  of  most  Protestant  historians.  Their 
symjiathies  run  strongly  in  favor  of  Jew,  Turk,  or  dissenter  of  every 
shade  of  opinion,  while  for  the  Catholics  tiiey  reserve  the  vials  of 
their  wratii ! 

"  Is  it  that  there  is  a  kindred  sjjirit  among  errorists  of  every  hue,  a 
certain  relationship  which  makes  ihein  have  a  tender  feeling  for  one 
another?  It  woukl  seem  so.  The  chief  severity  of  (his  remark  con- 
sists in  its  truth  ;  and  we  have  only  to  open  Piotestaut  historians 
/>(rss/m  to  become  persuaded  of  it.  Mr.  Prescott  furnishes  abundant 
evidence  of  this  spirit  tinoughout  his  work. 

"  It  was  scarcely  to  be  expected  that,  reared  as  he  evidently  has 


AN    UNPIILEGMATIC   DUTCHMAN. 


315 


kinds  which 
jiiisition.  ij^ 
pmeniber  that 

^URTS    OF  ALL 

[ates  as  late  as 
_  o{  Prestott's 
ptholic  proji,. 

struction  I  re- 

n  was  greatly 
'1  be  ini'crrod 
"  wliicli  is,  in 
er  chanced  to 
d)Iishmont  of 
iciples  of  the 
umny  that  a 
on,  '  The  end 

St.  Doniinick 
ii'iintains  that 
He  tells  iu 
I  miracles  by 
converted  to 
fering  of  this 
'ors  of  (;ran- 
i^plc  M.ein  lo 
syinpath)'  to 
'  iie  alone  in 
ans.     'I'heir 
LT  of  every 
lie  vials  of 

very  hue,  a 
'i"g  for  one 
L-niaik  con- 
'listoi  iaiis 
s  abundant 

dently  has 


been,  in  all  the  prejudices  of  Protestantism,  Mr.  Prescott  should  have 
become  wholly  divested  of  the  early  impressions  of  the  nursery,  so  as 
10  approach  the  subject  of  the  horrible  Spanish  Inquisition  with  a 
calm  mind  and  a  steady  nerve.  It  was  difficult  to  dispel  the  bloody 
phantoms  of  slaugntered  victims,  which  had  haunted  his  early  days, 
and  to  get  rid  of  the  opinions,  in  regard  to  that  tribunal,  which  had 
been  fastened  on  his  mind  by  the  teachings  of  the  press  and  the 
pulpit,  liut  as  a  historian  he  should  have  read  both  sides,  and  not 
have  suffered  himself  to  be  misled  by  violently  prejudiced  writers." 

The  historians  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition  most  in  favor  with  Protes- 
tants are  Limborch  and  Llorente.  Mr.  Prescott  cites  them  both, 
and  bases  most  of  his  statements  upon  their  authority.  To  ascertain 
how  far  they  are  to  be  relied  on  as  historians  of  the  Inquisition,  we 
must  see  wiio  they  were,  under  what  circumstances  they  wrote 
their  respective  histories,  and  what  motives  prompted  them  to  the 
task. 

Philip  Limborch  was  a  native  of  Holland.  He  belonged  to  the 
.sect  of  the  Remonstrants,  or  Mitigated  Calvinists.  He  was  not, 
however,  very  rigid  in  adhering  even  to  the  slight  standard  of  ortho- 
doxy required  by  his  own  party ;  for  he  became  a  Unitarian.  Had 
John  Calvin  been  able  to  rise  from  his  tomb,  his  recreant  disciple 
might  have  stood  a  good  chance  to  be  bound  to  the  stake  with  Ser- 
vetus,  whose  tenets  he  advocated.  However,  he  escaped  unscathed, 
but  with  a  deep  and  pbiding  sense  of  the  wrongs  his  party  had  en- 
dured from  the  (lomarists.  He  determined  to  shoot  an  arrow  at  them 
through  the  Spaniards,  whose  very  name  had  been  execrated  in  Hol- 
land since  the  days  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain  and  of  the  Duke  of  Alba. 
The  memory  of  the  fierce  and  bloody  struggle  with  the  Spaniards,  in 
which  so  many  hairowing  scenes  had  occurred  on  both  sides,  was 
still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  Dutch.  To  be  sure  they  had,  to  say 
the  least,  been  guilty  of  as  much  cruelty  as  the  Duke  of  Alba  and 
his  soldiery ;  but  this  was  forgotten,  and  the  cruelty  of  the  Span- 
iards was  alone  remembered.  Limborch  knew  that  he  could  not 
better  cater  to  the  tastes  of  his  countrymen  than  by  writing  a  detailed 
history  of  this  odious  tribunal  (the  S[)anish  Incjuisition)  ;  and  he  ac- 
cordingly set  about  the  work,  and  i)ublished  it  at  Amsterdam  in  1692. 
The  minds  of  his  countrymen  were  too  much  excited  to  enable  them 
lo  perceive  the  glaring  inaccuracies  and  gross  misstatements  of  the 
Dook ;  and  had  he  painted  the  horrors  of  the  Inquisition  with  tenfold 


I'       M 


,!  IS 


31S 


GARBLING    EXTRACTS. 


Ill 


force,  their  deadly  hatred  of  the  tribunal  would  have  caused  them  tc 
devour  the  work  witliout  one  misgiving  ! 

Such  was  Limborch.  He  evidently  wrote  his  history  under  such 
excitement  as  would  naturally  lead  us  to  expect  little  of  the  impar- 
tiality of  the  historian,  and  much  of  the  exaggeration  of  a  man  writing 
against  a  tribunal  odious  in  a  religious  and  political  point  of  view, 
and  i)andcring  also  to  a  taste  greatly  vitiated,  and  highly  excited. 
Accordingly,  we  find  in  his  work  few  of  the  intrinsic  qualities  of  a 
veridical  history.  He  professes  to  derive  his  statements  from  the 
Inquisitors  themselves  ;  yet  Fra  Paolo,  the  Italian  historian  of  the 
Council  of  Trent,  whose  hypocrisy  made  him  conceal  the  mind  and 
heart  of  a  I'rotestant  under  the  cowl  of  a  Catholic  friar,  and  Hellon, 
the  famous  Protestant  author  of  the  too  famous  "Relation  of  the  In- 
quisition at  (loa,"  is  among  his  favorite  authors  of  reference.  And 
when  he  does  cite  the  works  of  the  incjuisitors  themselves,  he  garbles 
the  extracts,  quoting  only  what  suits  his  purpose,  very  often  extract- 
ing only  the  concluding  sentence  from  a  lengthy  passage,  and  thereby 
often  making  the  Inquisitors  say  just  the  contrary  of  what  the)-  had 
intended. 

The  Abbe  de  Vayrac,  who  had  spent  twenty  years  of  his  life  in 
Spain,  answered  these  misrepresentations  in  his  famous  work,  '■'■L  Etat 
present  iV Espa^nc.^''  He  proved  that  the  statements  of  Limborch  in 
regard  to  the  Spanish  Intiuisition  were  greatly  exaggerated,  or  posi- 
tively fiilse. 

Mr.  Prescott  also  cites  Llorente,  who  appears  to  be  his  favorite,  so 
much  so  as  to  merit  a  special  biographical  notice  at  the  close  of  his 
chapter  on  the  Inquisition. 

1  will  here  give  a  brief  sketch  of  this  man's  life,  that  the  public  may 
better  judge  how  much  credence  can  be  given  to  his  statements. 

Llorente  was  born  in  Calahorra  in  S[)ain,  a.d.  1756.  He  studied 
for  the  church,  and  was  ordained  priest  at  an  early  age.  A  singular 
incident  occurred  at  his  ordination  ;  after  the  consecration,  in  which 
he  had  recited  the  words  of  Ciirist,  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  illness 
which  ])revented  his  receiving  the  holy  connnunion  ;  some  viewed 
Ihe  occiu-rence  as  ominous.  His  first  work  after  ordination  was  a 
comedy  "  On  Matrimony,"  which,  however,  at  the  earnest  solicitations 
of  a  friend,  he  consented  to  burn.  When  subseciuently  vicar-general 
of  the  diocese  of  Calahorra,  he  composed  another  comedy,  and  had 
it  acted  on  the  stage,  very  little  to  the  edification  of  the  people  at^d 


^^m 


AN   UNPATRIOTIC  SPANIARD. 


"ised  them  tc 

lO'  iiiKler  such 
of  the  iiiipar. 
a  man  writing 
>oint  of  view^ 
l^ighly  excited, 
qiiah'ties  of  a 
t-'iits  from  the 
storian  of  ilie 
t'lc  /Hind  and 
".  and  Helion, 
tion  of  tile  In- 
erence.     And 
'^^,  lie  garbles 
"ften  extract- 
2,  and  thereby 
vhat  thej-iiad 

of  his  life  in 
vork,  "Z'J>M 
f  I'iniborch  in 
ated,  or  posi- 

is  favorite,  so 
■  close  of  his 

-  public  may 
ements. 
He  studied 
A  singular 
JU,  in  which 
dden  illness 
>J»e  viewed 
ation  was  a 
'olicitations 
car-general 
ly,  and  luul 
l>eoi)le  and 


317 


of  the  clergy  of  that  city.  Not  content  with  his  retirement  at  Cala- 
hona  he  [)roceeded  to  Madrid,  where  he  spent  his  time  intriguing  for 
place.  He  succeeded,  and  rose  step  by  step  until  he  became  Secre- 
tary of  the  Inipiisition  at  Madrid.  Having  been  guilty  of  a  grievous 
betra^•al  of  the  confidence  reposed  in  him  by  the  inquisitor-general, 
and  of  several  other  irregularities  of  conduct,  he  was  ordered  to  leave 
Madrid  and  to  repair  to  his  native  place.  Here  he  was  equally  rest- 
less and  intriguing,  but  upon  his  writing  letters  full  of  repentance  and 
abject  submission,  he  was  again  received  into  favor.  He  now  made 
his  appearance  at  court,  and  by  the  aid  of  powerful  friends  he  was 
soon  created  Canon  of  Toledo,  and  received  the  cross  of  the  ordei 
of  Charles  III.  At  the  court  of  Ferdinand  VII.  he  was  loaded 
with  honors ;  and  yet,  on  the  invasion  of  the  I'rcnch,  he  sought  out 
Murat,  their  conima:ider-in-chief,  turned  traitor  to  his  country,  and 
ranged  himself  on  the  side  of  her  enemies  !  He  repaired  to  Bayonne 
to  pay  court  to  the  new  king,  Joseph  Bonaparte,  took  the  oath  of 
fidelity  to  him,  and  was  appointed  one  of  his  secret  couiisellors. 
Charged  by  Joseph  Bonaparte  with  a  commission  for  the  suppression 
of  the  convents  in  Spain,  he  discharged  his  office  with  singular  zeal 
and  efficiency. 

In  1809  Llorente  was  ordered  by  Joseph  Bonaparte  to  write  a  history 
of  the  Spanish  Inciuisition,  and  he  was  no  doubt  well  paid  for  his  labor. 
He  knew  w^ell  what  kind  of  work  would  suit  the  palate  of  his  royal 
master,  and  what  kind  of  work  he  was  expected  to  write.  He  set 
iibout  his  task  with  great  ardor ;  but,  owing  to  the  expulsion  of  the 
French  from  Spain,  he  was  not  able  to  complete  it  until  nine  years 
later.  He  fled  to  Paris  with  his  ro;al  patron,  and  nothing  shows 
more  fully  his  restless  ambition  and  his  total  want  of  principle  than 
the  course  which  he  now  adopted.  Finding  that  the  sun  of  tlie 
Bonaparte  family  had  set  forever,  he  determined  again  to  pay  court 
to  that  Ferdinand  whom  he  had  abandoned  and  betrayed! 

^Vhen  accused  of  gallantry  with  a  French  countess,  at  the  age  of 
Mxty-six,  his  friends  defended  him  on  the  ground  that  he  had  previ- 
ously married  her,  though  he  was  a  priest  at  the  time,  who  had  vowed 
celibacy  !  He  was  finally  banished  from  France  by  the  government 
for  improper  conduct,  and  died  shortly  after  at  Madrid,  Feb.  25, 
1823,  in  the  .sixty-seventh  year  of  his  age. 

Such  was  I.lorente,  a  traitor  to  his  country,  and  probably  to  his 
religion  ;  who  tried  to  play  off  in  Spanish  affairs  the  same  part  that 


M  li 


i 


!li 


'   I 


i         . 


•1' 


Ilfl^ 

1 

m 

1   '■ 

ill 


tt  T    '•■ 


r., 


318 


THE    MOORS   IN   SPAIN. 


Talleyrand  did  in  those  of  Fiance,  but  failed  for  want  of  the  genius  of 
the  latter.  Could  \vc  ex[)ect  an  impartial  history  from  such  a  man? 
He  alters  texts  to  suit  his  purpose,  and  gives  us  only  his  own  word 
for  most  of  his  statements,  and  yet  this  man  is  Mr.  Prescott's  favorite 
authority. 

It  reciuires  but  a  slight  acciuaintance  with  Spanish  history  to  be 
convinced  of  the  fact  that  the  In(]uisition  in  that  country  was  an 
instrument  of  state  policy,  employed  under  circumstances  of  hiyh 
])olitical  excitement. 

The  causes  which  led  to  its  establishment  had  been  steadily  oper- 
ating for  nearly  eight  hundred  years. 

In  711  the  Moors  invaded  Spain  and  seized  its  finest  ]irovinces. 
]>jever  was  there  a  contest  of  so  long  continuance,  or  which  resulted 
in  a  political  hatred  so  deep  and  abiding.  It  was  a  civil  and  bonier 
war  between  two  races  which  could  never  amalgamate,  because  kept 
asunder  by  different  religions,  different  temperaments,  and  different  in- 
terests. The  Spaniards  were  fighting  for  their  liberties,  for  their  fue- 
sides,  and  their  altars  ;  the  Moors  sought  to  annihilate  the  one  and  to 
pollute  and  desecrate  the  others.  All  i^risoners  taken  in  war  by  the 
latter  were  sold  into  bondage  in  Morocco,  and  religious  ortlers  were 
established  by  the  Christians  for  the  redemption  of  these  forlorn 
captives. 

The  war  then  assumed  a  religious  cast,  and  the  military  orders  of 
St.  Jago  of  Calatrava,  and  of  Alcantara  were  established  among  the 
Si)aniards  to  keej)  up  the  crusade  against  the  enemies  of  their  coun- 
try and  of  their  religion. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances,  when  the  great  struggle  was  ap- 
proaching its  crisis,  in  the  brilliant  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella, 
and  when  for  the  first  time  for  seven  hundred  and  eighty-one  years 
the  Spanish  nation  had  a  fair  opportunity  of  shaking  off  the  yoke, 
that  the  government  established  a  tribunal  of  great  severity  to  assist 
them  m  ferreting  out  the  Moors,  and  in  expelling  them  from  the  coun- 
try. Intercei)ted  letters  in  cipher  proved  that  after  the  conquest  ot 
(iranada  the  Moors  were  concerting  with  their  brethren  in  Africa 
measures  for  regaining  their  lost  power  in  Spain,  'i'hc  Jews,  wiio 
were  very  rich,  who  were  scattered  all  over  Spain,  were  deeply  en- 
gaged in  the  jtlot.  They  were,  if  possible,  more  odious  in  Spain  than 
the  Moors.  They  were  likewise  accused  of  otner  crimes  of  dreadful 
atrocity ;  of  kidnapping  Christian  children  and  of  selling  them  into 


I  i 


wmmmmm 


THE   POPE   AND   THE   KING. 


319 


bondage  in  Africa,  and  even  of  feasting  on  the  flesh  of  infi.int  Christian 
babes  at  the  celebration  of  their  passover.  Similar  charges  were 
made  against  the  Moors.  (See  an  inte'<*sting  paragraph  in  Prescott, 
vol.  i.  i)age  25S.) 

It  was  only  after  the  Jews  were  Imowi;  '^o  be  leagued  with  the 
Moors  for  the  subversion  of  Spanish  lil.erty,  and  after  they  had  been 
delected  in  writing  a  libel  on  the  Spanish  gov'ernnient,  that  the  edict 
of  tiieir  banishment  was  published  and  .he  tribunal  of  the  Inquisition 
api)ointed  to  carry  it  into  executi    1. 

Accordingly,  as  this  court  deriv^.d  its  authority  from  the  king,  it 
directed  it  to  tiie  advantage  of  royal  power.  It  was  even  believed  and 
asserted  from  the  beginning  that  the  kings  had  been  moved  to  estal)- 
lish  and  countenance  this  tribunal,  more  by  their  hankering  after  the 
wealth  it  confiscated,  than  by  motives  of  piety. 

It  was  the  Intpiisition,  and  the  Inquisition  alone,  that  completely 
shut  out  all  extraneous  interference  with  the  state  ;  the  sovereign 
had  now  at  his  disposal  a  tribunal  from  which  no  grandee,  no  arch- 
bishop could  withdraw  himself.  Foreigners  were  particularly  struck 
with  this  fact. 

"The  Inquisition,"  says  Segui,  "was  invented  in  Spain  to  rob  the 
wealthy  of  their  {property  and  the  powerful  of  their  consequence." 

As  Cliarles  knew  no  other  means  of  bringing  i)unishment  upon  the 
bishops  who  had  taken  jiart  in  the  insurrection  of  the  communes,  he 
cliose  to  have  them  judged  by  the  Inquisition.  For  open  heresy  was 
not  the  only  question  it  had  to  try ;  it  interfered  in  matters  of  trade 
and  of  the  arts,  of  customs  and  marine.  How  much  farther  could  it 
go  wlien  it  pronounced  it  heresy  to  dispose  of  horses  or  numition  to 
France,  It  was  in  si:)irit  and  tendency  above  all  a  political  institu- 
tion.       TllK    Poi'K    HAD    AN    INTKRKST    IN    THWARTING    IT  J   AND    HK 

DHi  ,so,  AND  A.s  OKTEN  AS  HE  COULD.  15ut  the  king  had  an  interest 
in  constantly  upholding  it.  The  whole  texture  of  its  constitution  was 
as  political  as  was  its  origin,  for  all  the  oflicers  were  named  with  the 
ixpproval  of  the  Jdti^. 

So  manifest  was  it  to  the  whole  world  that  this  tribunal  was  a 
local  political  institution,  growing  out  of  circumstances  peculiar  to 
Spain,  and  designed  only  for  die  Jews  and  Moors,  that  when  subse- 
quently the  Spanish  government,  under  Philip  II.,  sought  to  establish 
it  in  Milan,  the  people  revolted,  exclaiming,  "  that  it  was  tyranny  to 
impose  on  a  Christian  city  a  form  of  Inquisition  designed  for  Moors 


!   Ij 


I  i:  i 


' . 


» 


I"  \'4 


i'l 


!i-  it  PI 

fill 


■ 


t  1 


ffl!" 


■^20 


ADMISSIONS    OF   OPPONENTS. 


and  Jews."  And  Mons.  Giiizot,  a  famous  historian,  though  a  Cah'tn 
ist,  says  that  it  was  at  liist  more  political  than  religious,  and  destined 
to  maintain  order  rather  than  to  defend  the  fiiith. 

Tliat  the  abuses  of  the  Inquisition  have  been  greatly  exaggerated, 
we  ])rove  by  the  express  words  of  that  arch-enemy  of  the  tribunal, 
\'oltaire,  whose  testimony  Mr.  Prescott  quotes  witii  so  much  com- 
placency. Voltaire  says,  "  \Vithout  doubt  writers  have  imputed  to  a 
tribunal  so  justly  detested  horrible  excesses  which  it  has  not  always 
committed  ;  but  it  is  very  injudicious  to  decry  the  Incjuisition  by 
doubtful  facts,  and  still  more  to  seek  to  render  it  odious  by  false- 
hood." And  yet  this  is  precisely  what  all  the  enemies  of  the  intjui- 
sition  have  done,  and  none  more  so  than  Voltaire.  We  prove  it  by 
another  unexceptionable  witness,  Alons.  Bourgoing,  sent  by  tlio 
French  Republic,  in  17S9,  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  Spain.  Me 
was  violently  opposed  to  the  Inquisition,  and  yet  he  says  :  "  I  will 
acknowledge,  in  order  to  give  homage  to  truth,  that  the  Inquisition  in 
our  days  might  be  cited  as  a  model  of  ecjuity." 

This  avowal,  however  unpalatable  to  himself  and  to  his  employers, 
was  wrung  from  him  only  by  the  stern  evidence  of  truth.  Our  third 
witiiess  is  I-imborch,  whose  character  we  have  given  above.  Out  of 
a  very  long  list  of  criminals  condemned  by  the  Spanish  In([uisition, 
during  a  very  long  period,  he  admits  that  only  fifteen  men  and  four 
women  were  executed,  and  most  of  these  for  treason,  witchcraft, 
sacrilege,  or  other  crimes  than  heresy.  Fro'M  this  foct  we  draw  two 
inferences;  first,  that  the  rigid  laws  of  the  Incpiisition  were  very 
feebly  executed,  and  secondly,  that  a  very  small  proportion  of  the 
criminals  were  tried  for  heresy. 

The  Roman  Pontiff,  Clement  X.,  in  a  bull  i^ublished  in  1672, 
enumerates  the  offences  for  which  persons  might  be  proceeded 
against  by  the  Inquisition,  and  it  is  remarkable  that  out  of  thirteen 
different  classes  of  crimes  only  one  is  heresy. 

The  ecclesiastical  court  of  the  Incpiisition  was  but  preparatory. 
The  final  decision  of  the  case  always  took  place  before  the  civil  court, 
which  alone  inflicted  the  punishments  ordained  by  the  Spanish  laws. 
"The  former  court  had  only  to  decide  whether  there  was  sufficient 
reason  to  have  the  accused  indicted  before  the  latter.  It  performed 
very  much  the  same  office  as  our  grand  juries,  with  these  important 
differences,  that  it  took  cognizance  only  of  a  certain  class  of  oftences 
connected  with  religion,  pardoned  twice  whenever  the  criminal  gave 


Joii;j;!i  a  Cahin 
fc,  uiid  dcbtined 

^f  tlie  Iribunul, 
|«>  imich  com- 
e  iminifcd  lo  a 
lias  not  always 
IiKiuisition   by 
[rlious  by  false- 
of  the  Jnqui. 
Ve  prove  it  l)y 
sent   by   the 
to  Spain.     IIl- 
«^)'s  :   "  J  will 
Iii<liiisition  in 

his  employers, 
til-     Our  third 
'bove.     Out  of 
sh  In(|iiisition, 
men  and  four 
^'11,  witchcraft, 
t  we  draw  two 
on   were  \Kixy 
lortion   of  (ho 

bed  in  1672, 
)e  proceeded 
It  of  thirteen 

preparatory. 
10  civil  court, 
Spanish  laws, 
■as  sufficient 
t  performed 
e  ini])ortaut 
'  of  offences 
iminal  gave 


THE   ENGLISH   INQUISITION. 


321 


satisfactory  signs  of  repentance,  and  never  presented  but  when  there 
was  no  hope  of  reforming  the  offender. 

Count  Pollnitz,  in  his  very  interesting  memoirs,  is  astonished  at  the 
ideas  Protestants  entertain  on  a  subject  about  which  they  know  so 
little.  "  For  my  part,  I  own  to  you  I  cannot  imagine  in  what  the 
barbarity  consists  which  you  Protestants  attribute  to  the  Inquisition. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  mildest  and  most  lenient 
tribunal  that  exists,"  and  he  assigns  the  same  reason  that  we  do 
above,  appeals  to  his  own  observation  in  Catholic  countries,  and  hints 
at  the  opposite  spirit  of  the  Calvinistic  consistory  of  Geneva.  This 
was  in  fact  an  In(iuisition  which  never  forgave ;  and  the  English 
Court  of  High  Conunission  jirosecuted  the  inoffensive  Catholic  with  a 
vigor  that  never  relented,  no  matter  how  much  the  victim  cried  out 
for  mercy !  Even  Mr,  Prescott  allows  that  Elizabeth's  Inquisition 
efiualled  in  severity  that  established  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella;  the 
fact  is,  the  former  far  outstripped  the  latter  in  every  respect ;  and  the 
English  are  the  last  people  under  the  sun  who  should  talk  about  the 
Spanish  Incjuisition,  and  yet  they  precisely  have  raised  the  greatest 
clamor  on  the  subject.  It  is  not  true  that  counsel  was  not  allowed 
to  the  party  accused  ;  it  is  not  true  that  the  articles  of  accusation  were 
not  shown  to  him  ;  it  is  not  true  that  he  had  not  proper  means  of  de- 
fence allowed  him.  Finally,  though  the  autos-da-fc  were  bad  enough, 
yet  the  picture  of  them,  which  represents  the  clergy  assisting,  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  agony  of  the  victims,  is  as  unjust  as  it  is  fanciful.  They 
attempted  lo  soothe,  not  to  aggravate  the  sufferings  of  the  condemn- 
ed, as  ministers  of  all  denominations  at  the  present  day  accompany 
the  culprit  to  the  scaffold. 

JUit  the  moit  mischievous  part  of  Mr,  Prescott's  account  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition  is  that  in  which  he  deliberately  charges  on  the 
Catholic  Church;  not  only  the  institution  itself,  but  even  its  cruelties 
and  abuses.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust.  It  was  never  establish- 
ed in  any  country  without  the  concurrence  of  its  temporal  rulers.  In 
Spain  the  peoi)le  and  Cortes  demanded  its  establishment  from  the 
king,  as  the  only  remedy  to  the  desperate  political  evils  of  the  country. 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  according  to  Limborch,  "  earnestia'  solicited 
the  Roman  Pontiff,"  to  allow  them  to  name  intiuisitors  for  their  do- 
minions. It  is  doubtful  whether  the  Roman  Pontiff,  Sixtus  IV.,  could 
have  effectually  resisted  an  appeal  made  with  so  much  earnestness, 
and  involving  a  matter  so  intimately  interwoven  with  the  welfare  of 
14* 


I.      '  \\ 


- 


322 


THE  POPE   INTERFERES. 


P;  5 


im 


hII 


li 


Sjiain.  He  heard  the  petition,  and  issued  the  bulls  demanded,  in  1478  ; 
but  on  the  appeal  of  the  Jews  against  the  excessive  severity  of  the 
intpiisitors,  he  issued  another  bull  in  1481,  in  which  "he  rebuked 
their  intemperate  zeal,  and  even  threatened  them  with  deprivation. " 
Mr.  Prescott  even  admits  this  in  vol.  i.  p.  254.  A  little  later,  Pope 
Leo  X.  received  the  petition  of  the  Arragonese,  stating  their  grievances 
under  the  operation  of  the  Inquisition,  and  granted  the  jjrayer  thereof 
by  a  special  bull,  by  which  he  greatly  modified  the  form  of  the  whole 
tribunal  and  restrained  the  powers  of  the  inquisitors  ;  but  to  show  how 
])owerless  the  Pope  was  in  this  matter,  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  an- 
nulled the  papal  decree  by  his  royal  authority ! 

The  popes  succeeded  better  in  regard  to  Najjles,  over  which  they 
had  more  political  influence  ;  they  steadily  opi)osed  the  introduction 
of  the  Inquisition  into  that  kingdom,  and  after  a  long  struggle  with  the 
Si)aniards  they  gained  the  victory.  It  was  Charles  V.,  and  not  the 
Pope,  who  established  the  Inquisition  in  Sicily.  It  was  the  Senate  of 
Venice,  and  not  the  Pope,  who  established  the  Inquisition  in  that  re- 
public. 

The  general  policy  of  the  popes  deprecated  severity  towards  sin- 
ners and  those  who  had  wandered  from  the  true  faith.  The  liullariuni 
Romanum  is  full  of  proofs  of  this  assertion.  It  was  one  of  the  stand- 
ing rules  of  the  Supreme  Roman  Inquisition  instituted  by  the  bull  of 
Paul  111.,  in  1542,  that  its  decisions  should  be  given  .i.Tfl'/'/V  in  every  case. 

In  establishing  this  supreme  court  the  Pontiff  revoked  all  previous 
inquisitorial  powers,  and  laid  down  such  rules  as  were  well  calculated 
to  prevent  every  abuse.  And  though  three  hundred  years  have 
elapsed  since  the  establishment  of  this  tribunal,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  point  to  a  single  instance  in  which  it  ever  pronounced  sentence  of 
capital  punishment. 

Such  was  the  conduct  of  the  popes  at  home,  where  they  had  the 
power  to  act  according  to  their  own  judgment,  untrammelled  by  the 
political  intrigues  of  princes. 

We  often  hear  of  the  number  of  persons  who  were  immolated  by 
the  Inquisition,  but  we  are  not  told  of  the  far  greater  number  who 
fell  in  the  various  religious  wars  by  which  Germany,  France,  and 
PvUgland  were  convulsed,  while  Spain  was  secured  by  this  institution 
from  the  acrimonious  controversy  in  which  those  wars  originated. 
Where  the  Spanish  Inquisition  immolated  one  \  ictim,  the  Moloch  of 
religious  dissension  has  immolated  whole  hecatombs. 


say, 


"1 


A   ROYAL   MACHINE. 


323 


f(^cd,  in  1478. 

[icverity  of  the' 
"'i^-  leljiikcxr 

[deprivation. " 
|e  later,  Pope 
loir  grievances 
prayer  tliereof 
|i  of  the  whole 
ft  to  show  how 

'liarles  V.  an- 

-r  which  they 
-  introduction 
'gglo  with  the 
^m]  not  the 
tile  Senate  of 
on  in  that  re- 

toward.^  sin- 
'he  Biillariiini 

of"  the  stand- 
y  the  hull  of 
in  every  case. 

I  all  previous 

II  calculated 
years  have 
be  difficult 

sentence  of 

icy  had  the 
"t^(l  by  the 

nolated  by 
nuber  who 
ranee,  and 
institution 
originated. 
VToIoch  of 


It  is  time  to  learn  the  lesson  of  forbearance  taught  by  the  Gospel, 
and  confirmed  by  the  biiter  experience  of  the  past.  Have  the  Pro- 
testant sects  been  immaculate  on  the  score  of  religious  persecution 
in  regard  to  the  mother  church,  or  even  in  regard  to  each  other?  If 
they  have,  tlien  may  they  rail  at  the  Spanish  Inciuisition  !  But  if  they 
have  some  misgivings  on  the  subject,  then  would  we  say  to  them, 
ill  the  language  of  our  blessed  Lord,  addressed  to  the  Scribes  and 
Pharisees,  who  sought  the  death  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery, 
"He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone." 

A  Protestant  will  naturally  shake  his  head  and  say  :  "It  is  no  use 
for  you  to  try  to  throw  all  the  blame  on  the  kings  ;  for,  if  it  was,  as  you 
say,  *a  ])olitical  tribunal  with  spiritual  weapons,'  why  did  not  the 
Roman  Pontiff  withdraw  those  weapons?  As  he  controls  the  clergy, 
he  could  have  prevented  them  officiating,  and  then  no  blame  could 
have  been  co..  t  upon  the  church?  " 

I  would  remind  the  Protestants,  that  when  the  petition  to  establish 
the  Intpiisition  in  Si)ain  was  so  earnestly  pressed  by  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  who  were  but  presenting  the  i)etitionof  the  people,  which  they 
accompanied  witli  a  request  that  the  crown  should  appoint  the  offi- 
cials, it  was  not  possible  for  Sixtus  IV,  to  foresee  all  the  abuses 
wliich  would  arise  from  such  a  grant. 

The  prejudiced  mind  will  insist  that  as  soon  as  the  Roman  Pontiff 
saw  the  abuses  of  this  tribunal  it  was  his  duty  to  remedy  them. 

To  this  I  reply  that  the  American  Protestants,  who  have  revelled 
so  long  in  liberty,  forget  that  kings  are  not  quite  so  tractable  (nor 
indeed  Republican  governments  either  where  their  interests  are  con- 
cerned). 

T  le  kings  converted  the  Inquisition  into  a  piece  of  government 
machinery,  which  reached  all  classes  and  all  grades,  and  it  was  the 
only  tribunal  which  they  could  turn  against  the  chr  h  itself,  by 
holding  in  check  any  archbishop  or  prelate  whom  t  ■  other  tri- 
bunals could  not  reach. 

The  pontiffs  exerted  themselves  to  their  utmost  to  defend  the  in- 
nocent and  to  bring  the  guilty  to  justice;  but  they  were  powerless 
before  the  infiuence  which  the  crown  brought  to  bear  upon  all  cases 
in  which  it  found  it  its  in'erest  to  prosecute. 

The  Protestant  will  add,  "  But  it  was  their  duty  to  have  abolished  it." 
But,  my  dear  friends,  this  would  have  been  interfering  with  princes  in 
the  exercise  of  their  temporal  jurisdiction  ;  that  which  has  always  been 


Kl 


iill 


..■  f% 


'524 


A   SPANISH   STATE   CHURCH. 


the  plea  of  all  royal  and  republican  dissenters  for  not  siibinilling  to 
the  church,  "They  would  not  be  Roman  Catholics,  because  they 
would  not  submit  to  be  interfered  with  by  the  Poi)e  ; "  whicli  is  just 
what  the  Pope  refused  to  do. 

The  church  was  obliged  to  tolerate  what  she  had  not  the  power  to 
repress  ;  for  in  this  instance  had  she  chosen  to  use  her  rightful 
authority  to  abolish  a  tribunal  which  by  name  was  exclusively  eccle- 
siastical, but  which  in  reality  was  wholly  civil,  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella, Charles  V.,  and  Philip  II.,  after  they  had  converted  it  into  a 
cloak  to  cover  up  their  own  despotism,  by  throwing  all  the 
odium  of  their  tyrannical  and  cruel  acts  upon  tlie  church,  would 
have  shown  themselves  no  less  tenaciously  disjwsed  to  gratify 
their  own  will  than  was  Henry  VIII.  These  monarchs.  Catholic  as 
they  were,  were  not  more  zealous  in  defending  the  faith  than  was 
Henry  VTII.,  so  long  as  the  Pope  let  him  have  his  own  way.  Had 
the  Pontiffs  asserted  their  full  authority  in  this  respect,  who  knows 
but  what  Spain  might  have  preceded  England  in  usurping  the  spiritual 
l)ower  !  She  would  have  naturally  drawn  with  her  all  the  clergy  who 
preferred  royalty  to  sanctitj',  and  to-day  I,  instead  of  defending  the 
church  against  the  reproaches  brought  upon  her  by  the  Spanish  In- 
quisition, might  be  searching  out  for  the  reader  the  source  of  spiritual 
jurisdiction  in  the  High  Church  of  Spain  ! 

The  Roman  Pontiffs  have  oftentimes  refrained,  for  the  benefit  of 
souls,  from  a  rightful  exercise  of  their  authority  opposing  jxitience  and 
mercy  to  cruel  injustice  ;  and  it  was  to  prevent  Spain  from  becom- 
ing what  England  is  today  that  the  Roman  Pontiffs  bore  and  grieved 
over  what  they  had  not  the  power  to  suppress.  The  Inquisition  in 
the  hands  of  Spanish  monarchs  was  like  a  thunderbolt  ready  to  be 
hurled  against  the  church  itself,  to  say  nothirij^  of  the  odium  which 
its  acts  have  cast  upon  her  name.  It  is  a  refmeinent  of  injustice 
lO  make  the  legitimate  authority  of  the  church,  which  was  itself  op- 
pressed by  the  Inquisition,  responsible  for  all  its  doings.  The 
church  was  patient;  she  knew  that  the  injustice  that  a  few  indi- 
viduals might  temporarily  suffer  was  nothing  to  the  incalculable  in- 
jury tliat  would  be  done  to  millions  of  souls  if,  by  enforciii;^  her 
authority,  she  had  come  into  open  collision  wiUi  the  Spanish  mon- 
archs. 

How  often  lias  the  Inquisition  in  Si)ain  turned  its  weapons  against 
prelates?     The  Protestants  will  say  we  have  no    right  to  sanction 


iVIM 


TOLERATION  NOT  SANCTION. 


32s 


3t  siibmittincr  (q 
'»  because  they 
"  vvhicli  is  just 

ot  the  power  to 
se    Jier  riyhtful 
cliisively  eccle- 
nand  and  Jsa- 
->ted  it  into  a 
'^"■ing    all    the 
church,  would 
)sed    to   gratify 
hs,  Catholic  as 
faith   than  was 
wn  way.     Had 
;ct,  wlio  knows 
ng  the  .spiritual 
the  clergy  who 
defending  the 
he  Spanish  h\. 
irce  of  spiritual 

the  benefit  of 
g  patience  and 

fioin  becoin- 
re  and  grie\ed 
Inquisition  in 
'It  ready  to  be 

odium  which 
it  of  injustice 
was  itself  Dp. 
'oiiigs.  'J'jic 
•  a  few  indi- 
"alculable  in- 
-'iiforcing  her 
ipanish  mon- 


evil  that  good  may  come  out  of  it.  The  Popes  /ifvcr  sanctioned  tlit 
evil,  they  merely  tolerated  what  they  could  not  prevent.  Sanction- 
iiiir  it  would  have  been  approving  the  Spanish  cruelties;  Uiey  merely 
tolerated  a  lesser  evil  so  as  to  prevent  a  greater. 

The  church  is  always  ready  to  sacrifice  all  things  sooner  than  give 
her  sanction  to  evil,  as  is  easily  proved  by  the  fact  of  her  preferring 
to  lose  one  of  her  fairest  and  richest  realms  sooner  than  grant  a  bill 
of  divorce  to  Henry  VIII.  The  Spanish  nionarchs  never  tried  to 
extort  from  the  Pontifts  the  sanction  to  their  infamies,  as  Henry  VIII. 
(lid. 

When  I  was  a  child,  I  remember  hearing  my  uncle  and  aunt  say, 
that  it  was  the  only  good  thing  the  ])onapartes  ever  did,  to  fight  the 
church  and  suppress  the  In([uisition,  Of  course,  the  Bonapartes  had 
their  own  litterateurs  during  their  reign,  and  nearly  all  the  relations 
we  have  of  the  Inquisition  were  written  by  their  minions,  who  sought 
to  color  matters  in  a  way  favorable  to  this  family  and  Uieir  usurpa- 
tions. 

Hut  the  Spaniards  will  tell  you,  that  the  I)ona))artists  took  such  com- 
passion on  the  sufferings  of  those  diey  found  confined  in  the  juisons  of 
the  In(iuisition,  that  when  they  discovered  among  them  true  patriots, 
who  refused  to  join  their  standard,  they  relieved  these  "unfortunatk 
victims"  from  the  bondage  of  the  Incpiisition  by  pitching  them  out 
of  the  windows  on  the  points  of  their  bayonets. 

If  my  readers  are  not  willing  to  credit  my  statements,  let  them 
read  an  impartial  account  of  the  Incpiisition  in  a  work  entitled  Z'/i7«/ 
present  iV Espaf!;ne,  l)y  de  Vayrac,  who  is  a  Christian  author  of  rare 
talent,  and  a  man  whose  fiiith  as  an  historical  writer  has  never  been 
doubted.  It  seems  tome  that  even  Protestants  ought  to  place  more 
confidence  in  the  statement  of  a  Christian  of  unblemished  charac- 
ter, than  they  do  in  those  of  Limborch  the  Calvinistic  apostate, 
Voltaire  the  infidel,  and  Llorente  the  disreputable  priest  and  traitor. 


pons  agauist 
to  sanction 


326 


MY   CHRISTMAS. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 


am 


i     1 


I   AM    BORN   AGAIN. — MY   NICW    LIFE. 

After  the  cure  of  St.  Mande  had  finished  his  instructions  I  asked 
to  be  baptized. 

The  Christmas  of  1867  found  me  before  the  htt).e  altar  in  that  st-lf- 
same  chapel  where,  but  a  few  months  before,  I  had  sat  ])itying  Madam 
Xavier  for  the  untiring  efforts  she  was  making  for  me  with  our  Lord, 
that  He  might  make  me  one  of  His  rightful  heirs  by  the  gift  of  faith. 
The  chapel  was  filled  with  my  devoted  friends,  who  had  first  known 
me  in  Paris,  and  wlio  had  alwa3's  clung  to  me.  The  Prince  C/.ar- 
toryski  and  his  sister  the  Princes.  Iza  were  my  sponsors.  Tiie  Prin- 
cess placed  upon  my  finger  a  beautiful  ring,  an  oriental  pearl  set  in 
diamonds,  rubies,  and  sapphires,  to  each  of  which  gems  she  attached 
beautiful  symbolical  meanings,  of  purity,  hope,  fidelity,,  and  suftering, 
while  the  ring  itself  was  the  token  of  my  alliance  with  heaven. 

Madam  Xavier  told  lue  that  our  Lord  woidd  grant  me  whatever  I 
asked  of  Him  inunediately  after  baj^tism ;  and  she  begged  me  to  ask 
something  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  just  to  try  her ;  for  1  had  not  yet 
learned  to  feel  much  confidence  in  the  i)rayers  of  the  Mother  of  God. 

Immediately  after  I  was  baptized,  I  asked  God  for  six  favors  : 

I  St,    For  my  sister's  conversion  ; 

2d,    For  my  brother's  conversion  ; 

3d,    That  Mrs.  Dix  might  be  my  friend  ; 

4th,  That  Mrs.  Reynolds  might  stoj)  abusing  me  ; 

Sth,  For  future  Iiai)piness  ;  and 

6th,  That  I  might  have  it  in  my  power  to  help  the  poor. 

Mrs.  Reynolds  was  a  well  known  American  belle,  who  never  lost 
an  opi)ortimity  of  creating  prejucHce  against  me,  and  was  the  one 
who  had  worked,  thuough  the  Viscount's  daughter,  to  prevent  my  mar- 
riage with  him. 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  I  was  about  leaving  the  altar,  I 
recollected  my  i)roniise  to  ALadam  Xavier,  that  I  would  ask  some- 
thing of  Mary.  There  was  a  beautiful  life-size  statue  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  in  a  niche  directly  over  the  altar.  I  was  just  ready  to  leave 
when  I  looked  up  at  it  and  said  to  her:  "Good  Af other,  may  1  marry 


'  umm 


mmmm 


IT   WAS   NOT  ALL  A   DREAM. 


327 


ktions  I  asked 

ar  in  that  self. 
)itying  Madam 
[with  our  Lcid, 
le  gift  of  faith, 
ad  first  known 
e  Trince  Czar- 
rs.  Tlie  Prin- 
ill  pearl  set  in 
IS  sl)e  atlaclied 

1  and  sufferinsr, 
leaven. 

me  whatever  I 

?gcd  nic  to  ask 
1  had  not  jet 

lother  of  God. 

ix  favors ; 


lor. 

ho  never  lost 

was  the  one 

vent  my  mar- 

ig  the  altar,  I 
Id  ask  sonie- 
r  the  Blessed 
-ady  to  leave 
•nay  I  marry 


I.aferriore .?  may  I  marry  Laferriere?  B//f  if  it  is  not  God's  will 
that  I  should  marry  Laferriere,  may  I  marry  some  one  that  I  can 
love  ten  times  more  than  I  do  him,  and  ivho  will  love  me  ten  timei 
more  than  he  loves  me.''' 

I  had  hardly  spoken  when  I  felt  that  the  statue  said  :  "  Ye;;."  I 
promptly  said,  "Thank  you  ;"  as  I  was  positively  certain  that  I  had 
received  an  answer.  A  second  afterwards  I  regretted  that  I  had 
asked  her  for  an  impossibility ;  for  it  was  to  the  last  request  that  I 
felt  that  she  had  responded,  and  I  thought  that  it  was  imi)ossible  to 
love  any  one  more  than  I  did  Laferriere. 

That  evening,  as  I  was  speaking  to  Madam  Xavier,  I  chanced  to 
take  up  flic  little  book  called  Words  of  Jesus.  I  opened  it,  and  my 
eyes  fell  on  these  words  :  "  Daughter,  be  of  good  cheer,  thy  sins 
wliicli  were  many  are  all  forgiven  thee."  I  was  so  struck  with  the 
apprcprioteness  of  the  words,  that  I  translated  them  to  Madam 
Xavier,  who  emphatically  declared  that  God  intended  to  speak  to  me 
then,  I  felt  that  it  was  true,  for  I  ha'l  hardly  finished  the  verse  be- 
fore I  felt  a  .;weet  peace  fill  my  soul.  Before  I  lay  down  to  sleep 
that  night  1  asked  our  Lord  if  He  would  not  let  me  know,  in 
my  sleep,  when  I  was  to  be  married ;  for  I  felt  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin  had  promised  it  to  me  in  the  chapel,  and  I  wanted  to  know  if 
I  would  ever  be  married  to  Laferriere.  The  moment  I  lay  down,  I 
fell  instantly  to  sleep.  During  the  night  I  did  not  dream  ;  but  to- 
wards morning  I  had  a  vision,  for  it  was  too  distinct  to  be  a  dream, 
thcHigh,  at  the  time,  I  thougiit  it  was  a  dream.  Our  Lord  came  to 
me  :  I  could  not  see  Him,  but  1  felt  His  presence.  He  showed  me 
a  small  piece  of  paper,  on  which  was  written  figures  like  these  : — 


4  —  4 
4—4 
4  —  2 

4  —  4 
4  —  2 


4 

4 


4- 
4  — 
2  —  2  — 
4  —  2  — 
2  —  2  — 


4—2 

4  —  4 
2  —  4 

2  —  2 
4  —  2 


4 

2 

4 


2 

4 
2 

4 

4 


V I  told  me  to  read  it,  and  after  I  had  looked  at  it  attentively  He 
said  to  .  .  these  words,  which  1  heard  distinctly  :  "  You  will  have  to 
receive  the  grace  of  God  as  many  more  times  as  there  are  numbers  on 
this  piece  of  paper,  before  you  can  be  united  to  me;"  and  1  saw 
Laferriere  going  away  from  me,  with  a  frown  on  his  face.  I  instantly 
awoke,  and  1  interpreted  what  1  saw  in  this  wise  : — That  when  1  be- 


,i=  '  > 


Ul 


i<; 


jit 


*Tt 


t 


■■:.i||«i     'it 


328 


FIRST   COMMUNION. 


came  very  good,  and  had  prayed  so  much,  that  God  should  have  grant. 
ed  me  as  many  more  graces  as  I  had  seen  figures  on  that  piece  of  paper 
I  should  marry  Lafi^rriere.  I  was  sure  that  that  \vas  its  meaning,  foj 
iny  heart  was  still  his  :  I  had  only  given  my  conscience  to  (lod ;  and 
as  I  had  asked  to  know  when  I  should  be  wedded  to  Laferriere,  I 
was  sure  from  that  moment  that  I  would  one  day  be  his  wife.  And 
this  became  at  once  a  great  incentive  for  me  to  be  good,  so  as  to  ob- 
tain the  grace  of  God,  for  all  tlie  reward  1  asked  for  being  good  was 
to  be  united  to  the  man  I  loved. 

I  never  spoke  of  this  dream  (as  I  then  considered  it)  to  any  one; 
for  I  always  tried  to  conceal  my  attachment  for  Laferriere,  and  I 
knew  that  the  nuns  would  laugh  at  me  for  asking  such  an  earthly 
favor  of  our  Lord.  But  the  dream  remained  stereotyped  in  my  mind, 
and  I  constantly  sought  to  obtain  God's  grace  so  as  to  hasten  the 
happy  fulfilment  of  my  hopes. 

On  the  morning  of  the  27th  of  December,  1S67,  Feast  of  St.  John 
the  V.  ;.  jelist,  I  was  kneeling  once  more  near  that  little  altar,  in  that 
same  cVi.jpel,  waiting  to  receive  our  Lord.  Afy  mind  was  calm  and 
peaceful,  but  around  my  heart  I  felt  a  lurking  pain,  like  that  of  a 
wound,  which  had  just  been  cleansed,  but  which  time  alone  could  heal. 
The  cure  of  St.  Mande,  who  oftered  up  the  Holy  Sacrifice,  addressed 
a  few  words  to  me  before  I  approached  the  altar.  After  speaking  to 
me  of  our  Lord's  tendcniess  and  love,  he  stei)ped  aside,  and  pointing 
to  the  statue  of  the  blessed  Virgin,  he  exclaimed  :  "  My  child,  you  will 
soon  receive  your  Father  and  your  God  ;  but  '  behold  thy  mother ! ' 
I  give  you  to  her,  and  remember,  from  this  day  forth,  you  are  no 
longer  an  orphan ;  for  God  is  your  father,  Mary  is  your  mother,  and 
Jesus  is  your  si)ouse.  You  cannot  be  united  to  Jesus  unless  you  are 
to  Mary,  his  mother ;  for  his  body  was  formed  of  her  inunaciilaie 
flesh  and  blood.  I'e  a  faithful  cliild  to  God  and  a  loving  spouse  to 
Jesus,  and  Mary  will  ever  be  to  you  a  fond,  devoted  mother.  Come, 
come,  my  cliild,  and  receive  that  God  whom  we  all  adore." 

As  he  pronounced  these  words,  "  Come,  come,"  my  soul  panted  to 
taste  of  that  living  bread,  and  as  1  advanced  towards  the  altar  1  in- 
wardly exclaimeo  :  "  O  beloved  Jesus,  heal  my  heart."  1  knelt,  the 
priest  placed  on  ni)  tongue  the  sacred  H'tst.  Again  1  imploivd 
Jesus  to  relieve  me  of  that  lurkin  .,  pain.  Instantly  I  felt  the  sacred 
>vafer  dissolve,  and  my  whole  heart  was  bathed,  as  it  were,  in  a  must 
delicious  balm. 


■??^^*B!il|f?fP;?W.fl 


MY   HOME   DEVIL. 


hoiild  have  grant. 
[at  piece  of  paper 
its  meaning,  fo; 
[ice  to  Cod;  and 
to  Lafenicre,  I 
[e  his  wife.  And 
jood,  so  as  to  ob- 
[•  being  good  was 

1  it)  to  anyone; 
'Laferriere,  and  [ 
i  snch  an  earilily 

I'L'd  in  ni)- mind, 
IS  to  hasten  the 

v\ast  of  St.  John 
ittle  altar,  in  that 
kI  was  cahn  and 
in,  lik.(3  that  of  a 
alone  conld  heal. 
orifice,  addressed 
^fter  speaking  to 
ide,  and  pointing 
fy  child,  you  will 
(1  thy  mother  ! ' 
arth,  you  are  no 
3ur  mother,  and 
s  unless  3-ou  are 
lier  innnaculate 
'ving  spouse  to 
lother.     Come. 
ore." 

••^oul  panted  to 
the  altar  i  in- 
i  knelt,  the 
"1  i  implorctl 
felt  the  sacred 
'ere,  in  a  must 


329 


To  be  united  to  our  Lord,  it  is  not  enough  to  offer  him  our  con 
science,  oui  comforts,  and  our  wealth  ;  He  demands  all  we  have  to  offer, 
our  will,  our  hope,  and  all  our  heart.  That  morning  I  received  Him 
in  my  bosom,  but  He  did  not  enter  into  the  sanctuary  of  my  heart,  for 
all  its  avenues  were  closed  against  Him,  my  heart  was  still  another's  ; 
even  at  that  altar  I  was  thinking  of  Laferriere,  and  it  was  his  souvenir 
that  brought  back  the  lurking  pain.  But  our  Lord  took  pity  on  my 
wretched  state,  and  did  not  refuse  me  a  drop  of  the  solace  of  His  di- 
vine love,  so  that  I  might  know  thenceforth  where  to  go  and  seek  relief. 

iMoni  that  day  forth  I  loved  the  Blessed  Virgin  ;  for  when  the  cure 
said  to  me  :  "  I'ehold  thy  mother,"  I  looked  up  at  the  statue,  and 
perceived,  for  the  first  time,  that  on  its  pedestal  was  written  in  large 
letters  of  gold,  "  Fc/Af /r?  wr/r,"—"  Behold  thy  moUier,"  and  T  f-lt  th" 
same  impression  that  I  did  the  day  I  was  baptized;  that  the  Ble:;seJ 
Virgin  had  answ  ered  me  ;  but  this  time  I  felt  that  she  had  said  to 
me:  "Yes,  I  am  thy  mother."  I  smiled  and  thanked  ho-  again,  :\-i 
I  had  done  before.  All  my  ])rejudices  were  swept  aWi  y,  .  d  \  fell 
a  sweet  sympathy  kindle  in  my  heart  for  Mary. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 


CORRECTING   THE    INCORRIGIDI.E. 


The  morning  of  my  first  communion,  when  I  entered  the  chateau, 
I  foimd  that  my  maid  had  swept  the  rooms  but  had  not  dusted  them; 
and  she  was  sitting  leisurely  at  work  on  a  piece  of  tapestry  that  she 
was  making  for  herself.  I  asked  her  in  a  gentle  tone  why  she  had 
not  dusted  my  rooms ;  for  there  was  no  jilace  for  me  to  sit  down, 
without  ruining  my  wliite  silk  dress.  She  tartly  replied:  "That  is 
the  way  you  come  home  from  yo'i  fust  conuuunion  !  "  The  tone 
and  look  which  accomi)anied  these  words,  meant  to  imply  that  I  had 
come  home  in  a  bad  humor.  Said  I  :  "  You  will  leave  my  service 
on  the  7th  of  next  month."  I  then  turned  i wn\ ,  and  seeing  a  picture 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  which  the  nuns  had  h.ing  over  my  bed,  I  spoke 
to  it  and  said  :  •*  I  promise  you,  ATothcr,  that  1  will  send  her  away 
on  the  7th,  for  she  is  too  wicked  to  live  with  anv  longer." 

On  Ncw-Ycar's  Llay,  1868, 1  went  to  Paris,  and  remained  a  few  days 


I  ! 


\ 


%  ■ 


t'J 


\  • 


\  Wv. 


li 


330 


A   TREASURE   GONE. 


t't;  5 


,/  -l 


Avith  my  sister.  While  there  I  got  the  Viscount  to  send  for  his  old 
servant,  Madani  Daujat,  to  come  and  replace  my  maid. 

On  the  2d  of  January,  as  1  was  passing  throuirJi  llie  Passage  de 
Choiseul,  1  bought  a  beautiful  little  ivory  statue  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin, and  an  ivory  crucifix.  The  statue  was  a  chef  irauvre.  carved  by 
the  celebrated  Salvatore  Marchi.  When  I  returned  to  the  convent, 
1  found  that  my  maid  had  been  behaving  unusually  well,  and  was 
doing  all  she  could  to  induce  me  to  keep  her.  My  heart  relenlixl, 
and  I  almost  decided  after  all  that,  as  she  was  tr}ing  to  do  better,  it 
would  be  wrong  not  to  forgive  her,  and  perhaps  that  might  be  more 
])leasing  to  the  Bles.sed  Virgin  than  if  1  kept  my  vow. 

The  n„xt  day  the  cure  came  and  blessed  my  little  statue  and  cru- 
cifix. He  had  just  left,  when  I  was  standing  by  the  window  holding 
tlie  little  ivory  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  my  hand,  admiring  iis 
beauty  and  exquisite  workmanship,  when  my  attention  was  called  to 
something  which  showed  a  marked  improvement  in  my  maid.  I 
turned  to  her,  and  told  her  that  I  was  sorry  she  had  not  always  done 
so  well,  but  that  I  could  not  keei)  her,  that  I  had  already  sent  for 
IMadam  Daujat.  ^^ Madam  Daujat/"  she  repeated  after  me  with 
emphasized  contempt.  ''  Madam  Daujat !  I  pity  you,  for  shu  is 
the  iiiost  disorderly  woman  that  ever  was :  you  should  have  seen 
your  wardrobe  how  it  was  packed.  I  even  found  one  of  your  child's 
old  shoes  in  your  jewelry  box." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "supposing  you  did,  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do 
is  not  to  touch  it."  "  Not  to  touch  it !  "  she  exclaimed,  straining  her 
eyes  to  the  utmost.  "  1  took  it  out  at  once  and  threw  it  into  the 
fne,  where  it  belonged."  "What,"  said  I,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  burned  up  that  little  shoe?"  "Of  course  I  did."  Said  I :  "Vou 
brute,  leave  my  ])resence  at  once." 

For  an  instant  I  forgot  everything  else  :  I  was  beside  myself  with 
grief,  and  the  tears  started  into  my  eyes  at  the  recollection  how 
that  little  shoe  had  been  to  me,  during  my  late  visit  to  America,  a 
monitor  and  a  solace. 

After  weeping  for  a  few  moments,  I  looked  at  the  little  ivory 
statue  of  the  Virgin  that  I  held  in  my  hand,  and  was  suddenly  con- 
soled for  the  loss  of  the  little  old  shoe.  1  thought  to  myself  i)erhai)S 
Csod  had  mtended  that  it  should  be  so,  and  that  it  was  all  for  tiie 
best.  I  had  ceased  to  be  a  pagan,  and  was  now  a  Christian  :  the 
little  old  shoe  had  done  its  mission,  and  must  now  be  set  aside  for 


U^! 


v.M«i 


lmmmi.mmfmu^X^t^ 


iaiiiiiinir'*i»*-^"f*J 


CURE  FOR  A   spinster's   SPLEEN. 


331 


the  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  which  would  take  its  jilace.  I  knelt 
down,  and  placed  the  statue  on  my  desk,  and  covering  it  with  my 
hands,  I  renewed  the  same  vow  that  I  had  made  about  tlirec  years 
before,  that  I  would  ever  be  a  good  mother;  and  I  implored  the 
Blessed  Virgin  to  pray  for  me  that  I  might  ever  keep  my  vow.  I 
arose  from  my  knees  with  a  light  and  joyful  heart,  went  and  found 
niy  maid,  and  excused  myself  for  my  rudeness.  She  appeared  '.piite 
overcome  with  such  an  act  of  humility  on  my  j^art,  and  begged  my 
])ardon  for  all  her  misdoing  during  her  stay  with  me.  I  concluded 
that  I  would  keel)  her. 

The  yth  of  January  came.  It  was  a  mild  genial  morning  for  that 
season  of  tiie  year.  I  was  walking  in  the  garden,  and  every  step  I 
took  I  thanked  God  for  the  peace  of  mind  He  had  given  me.  I 
thought  it  would  always  last.  I  entered  the  chateau.  My  maid  was 
arranging  the  fire,  and  I  mildly  asked  her  where  siie  had  put  the  pat- 
terns she  had  cut  from  my  dresses  made  at  Worth's.  Said  she,  "  I 
burnt  them  the  day  you  told  me  that  I  nuist  leave  your  service  on 
the  yth."  I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  face,  and  had  an  imjjulse  to 
thrust  her  head  into  the  fire  ;  but  I  instantly  controlled  my  temper, 
and  felt  humiliated  that  such  a  trifle  should  be  capable  of  disturbing 
my  peace  of  mind  ;  and  I  said  to  myself :  "  There  is  no  virtue  in  you 
if  you  are  not  cajiable  of  standing  more  than  that." 

When  my  mind  was  ])erfectly  comi^osed,  1  said  to  the  girl,  in  one 
of  the  mildest  and  blandest  tones,  in  order  to  soften  the  effect  of  my 
words :  "  1  have  just  as  much  right,  Josejjhine,  to  burn  u[)  one  of 
your  aprons  as  you  have  to  destroy  my  patterns." 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  t  e  fire.  In  her  right  hand  she  held 
a  huge  pair  of  tongs,  which  clenched  a  lighted  stick  :  her  left  hand  was 
])laced  on  a  pail  of  water  that  she  had  brouglit  in  to  wipe  up  the  hearth. 
In  this  position  she  turned  her  head,  and  lookcfi  me  full  in  the  face, 
and,  in  one  of  the  most  provoking  tones,  and  with  the  inost  disdain- 
fully si)iteful  expression,  she  replied  :  "  That  is  the  way  you  under- 
stand our  religion  ;  for  that  is  the  tvay  these  ladies  teach  it  to  you.'^ 

The  expression  of  her  face,  and  the  emphasis  she  put  on  her  last 
words,  were  too  nuich  for  me.  The  blood  rushed  through  my  veins 
like  hot  lava.  "  1  won't  get  angry,"  1  exclaimed,  "  for  burnt  patterns, 
bui  I  will  fight  for  those  nuns  ;  "  and  I  sprang  upon  her  like  j  ligress. 
I  caught  her  by  her  waterfall,  seized  a  candlestick  from  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  1  pounded  her  with  it  until  she  got  out  of  my  way. 


U-' 


\,\\ 


3nry 


CONFUSION   IN  THE   CONVENT. 


;  l! 


A  few  moments  afterwards  the  Superior  and  Madam  Xavier  came 
rusliing  into  tlie  room  ;  for  Josephine  had  run  out  into  the  garden, 
and  told  them  that  I  had  nearly  battered  her  to  death  with  a  caiullc: 
stick.     I  was  so  exhausted   and  so  frightened  at  what  1  had  done 
that  I  could  not  articulate  a  word.      In  Josephine's  efforts  to  got 
away  from  me,  she  had  upset  the  pail  of  water,  and  the  burning  stick 
whicli  she  held  in  the  tongs  was  out  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  blaz- 
ing in  the  centre  of  a  Turkish  rug.    Madam  Xavier,  without  speaking, 
([uietly  looked  for  the  tongs,  took  up  the  burning  slick,  and  placed  it 
in  the  hre-place.      She  then  returned  to  see  if  there  was  any  more  lire 
al)()ut  the  room,  and,  seizing  hold  of  something  with   the  tongs  that 
she  found  lying  near  the  door,  and  quite  inystihed  as  to  what  it  was, 
she  held  it  up  in   thf»  air,  looking  at   it  intently,  and  exclaiming : 
"Qu'est  ce  que  c'est  ?  (lu'esi  ce  ([ue  c'cst?  (What  is  it  ?  what  is  it?) 
Said  the  Rev.  Mother  :   "  1  should  think  you  would  recognize  it.  fur 
it  is  Jose])hine's  waterfall."     "Yes,"  said  I,  "  that  is  what  I  held  her 
by  ;" — and  they  both  burst  out  laughing  ;  but  when  I  told  them  the 
whole  story  they  laughed  stiil  more. 

The  Rev.  Mother  told  me  to  go  over  into  her  parlor  intil  one  of 
the  Sisters  had  arranged  my  room  ;  for  it  was  flooded  with  the  water. 
She  told  me  that  the  girl  must  leave  the  convent  at  once. 

As  1  was  crossing  the  street  I  began  to  rellect  on  the  trouble  the 
girl  might  give  me  ;  for  in  France  it  is  a  very  serious  affair  to  strike 
any  one.  Wlien  I  entered  the  Rev.  Mother's  parlor,  I  saw  on  her 
desk  "  T'^yaf/T'/rr,"  and  then  I  recollected  the  promise  I  had  made 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin  on  the  jnorning  of  my  first  conununion  that  1 
would  send  Josephine  away  on  the  7th.  The  thought  struck  mo 
that  it  was  the  IJlcssed  Virgin's  wish  that  I  should  not  break  my  jiro- 
mise  to  her,  and  this  had  all  happened  that  1  might  fullil  it.  I 
ntshed  into  the  chajiel  to  implore  her  protection,  and  I  said  to  her 
just  as  confidently  as  though  I  was  speaking  to  some  one  by  my 
side  whom  1  could  see  and  who  could  hear  ine  . 

"  Blessed  Virain,  I  am  sure  you  have  got  me  into  this  scrape  ;  now 
I  shall  look  to  you  to  get  me  out  of  it ;"  and  the  same  thing  occurred 
to  me  that  had  hai)pened  twice  before,  I  felt  that  she  answered  me, 
and  said  she  woiild.  I  thanked  her,  and  left  the  chapel  perfectly 
composed  ;  for  the  moment  1  had  made  that  sjieech,  I  felt  that  all  was 
right.  Not  so  with  Laferriere,  who  called  that  day  to  see  me.  He 
thought  that  my  quick  temper  had  more  to  do  with  it  than  the  Mother 


priests 


A  SLEEPING   WITNESS. 


333 


in  Xavier  canie 
"to  tlK'  garden, 
1  with  a  candle 
;^t   I  iiad  done 
s  efforts  to  I'ct 
k;  burning  stick 
the  room,  Maz- 
thout  speaking, 
:,  and  placed  it 
as  any  more  fire 
the  tongs  that 
to  what  it  was, 
id  exclainiin'' .- 
t  ?  what  is  it  ?) 
ecognize  it,  fur 
vhat  1  lield  her 
told   them  the 

'f  1  ntil  one  of 
with  the  water, 
nee. 

he  trouble  the 
affair  to  strike 
r,  I  saw  on  her 
L'  1  had  made 
nunion  that  1 
gh(   struck  me 
break  my  ])ro- 
it  fulfil  it.      I 
I  said  to  her 
ie  one  by  my 

•  scrape ;  now 
hing  occurred 
answered  nie, 
pel  perfeclly 
It  that  all  was 
see  me.  Ha 
n  the  AEother 


of  our  Lord,  and  he  scolded  me  severely  ; — for  he  was  sure  that  the 
girl  would  drag  me  before  the  magistrate  of  St.  JMande,  and  that  if  he 
attempted  to  interfere,  the  whole  opposition  press  would  cry  out 
ai^aiiist  the  court,  for  trying  to  interrupt  the  course  of  justice.  But 
in  s[)ite  of  all  he  said  to  me,  I  did  not  feel  the  slightest  fear  or  regret. 
I  felt  that  it  was  all  right,  and  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  would  protect 
me. 

About  a  week  passed  away,  and  still  no  news  from  Josephine,  until 
the  (//>'('•  called  on  me  one  morning  to  say  that  he  had  just  been 
speaking  to  the  magistrate  of  St.  Mande,  who  had  asked  him  if  it  was 
really  true  that  there  was  a  lady  residing  in  the  convent  who  had 
beaten  her  maid.  The  r///v'  avoided  answering  him  directly,  but  he 
learned  from  the  judge  that  Josephine  had  called  on  him,  and  had 
made  a  comi)laint  against  me  ;  but  they  refused  to  summon  me,  be- 
cause they  doubted  the  girl's  veracity,  and  they  believed  her  to  be 
crazy.  She  said  that  there  was  no  witness  but  herself;  and  when  the 
magistrate  asked  her  to  show  him  the  marks,  she  refused,  assuring  him 
that  modesty  forlhu/e  it ; — and  that  is  the  last  1  ever  heard  of  the 
incorrigible  Josephine. 

As  1  have  said  a  great  deal  about  what  I  have  been  taught  by  the 
priests,  I  will  say  one  word  of  their  behavior,  or  better,  I  will  not  say 
the  word,  but  let  the  reader  judge  for  himself.  • 

One  day  after  the  cure  of  St.  Mantle  had  been  giving  me  an  insti  ac- 
tion, I  went  to  oi)en  the  door  to  Jose[jhine's  bedroom,  when  I  was 
startled  by  her  coming  in  with  the  door,  and  falling  with  a  heavy 
bound  at  my  feet.  She  had  fallen  asleep  with  her  ear  againijt  the 
keyhole  I  helped  her  up  and  asked  her  what  was  the  matter,  for  the 
truth  did  not  tlash  at  once  across  my  mind.  She  had  hardly  recovered 
from  her  nap,  .".nd  her  fall,  when  she  replied,  "  that  she  could  not  help 
it,  it  was  so  lonely  to  be  always  by  herself  with  no  one  to  talk  to  ; " 
from  which  1  concluded  that  she  had  been  a  vigilant  sentinel  at  the 
keylu)le  ever  since  my  instructions  began  ;  and  the  reader,  if  he  has 
any  appreciation  of  such  a  character,  will  easily  believe  that  there 
never  could  have  been  any  mischief  going  on;  for  if  there  had  been, 
Josephine  never  would  have  fallen  asleep. 


A   PARLEY  AND  A  TREATY. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


A   TRUCE    WITH    MY   ARCH-KNEMY. 


On  a  blustering  winter's  day,  towards  the  middle  of  January,  the 
snow  was  falling  thick  and  fast.  It  was  nearly  sunset.  The 
thoroughfares  of  St.  Mande  are  usually  still  at  that  hour  ;  but  this 
evening  I  was  startled  by  the  noise  of  a  carriage,  which  came  rolling 
rapidly  down  the  street,  and  made  a  sudden  halt  before  the  convent 
door.  Who  could  be  coming  to  see  me  at  such  an  untimely  liour, 
and  in  such  a  dreadful  storm  ?  I  ran  to  the  parlor  window  :  the  sister 
had  already  opened  the  massive  gate.  In  a  second  it  was  closed, 
and  a  lithe  female  figure,  closely  wrajjped  in  velvet  and  furs,  tripi)ecl 
lightly  after  the  sister,  as  she  mounted  the  old  stone  steps.  I  opened 
the  door  to  receive  my  visitor.  In  an  instant  more  she  was  in  iny 
arms,  and  we  were  fondly  embracing  each  other.  It  was  Mrs.  Rey- 
nolds, who  had  come  to  beg  a  truce  of  hostilities. 

We  sat  down,  and,  after  asking  mutual  forgiveness  for  all  the  wrongs 
we  had  inflicted  on  eacli  other,  we  began  to  compare  notes,  to  see 
which  of  *us  had  been  the  victor.  It  was  difficult  for  either  of  us  to 
decide.  She  awarded  the  palm  to  me,  inasmuch  as  I  had  actually 
annihilated  her  good  name  in  many  circles,  and  all  her  enemies  juit 
together  had  never  been  able  to  deal  her  such  a  deathly  blow  as  I  had 
by  a  certain  bon-inot  that  had  fallen  from  my  li[)s.  But  I  repelled 
her  generosity,  for  I  was  not  willing  that  she  should  yield  to  me  a 
triumph  of  which  I  felt  that  she  was  too  deserving  herself ;  and  I  told 
her  that  I  thought  her  intrigues  to  break  otit"  my  marriage  with  the 
Viscount  surpassed  all  the  humiliations  I  had  ever  inflicted  on  her. 
After  we  had  conversed,  and  come  to  a  perfect  understanding  t'nat 
neither  of  us  in  future  would  ever  breathe  aught  but  good  concerning 
the  other,  she  rose  and  began  to  look  about  her.  Having  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  high  walls,  through  the  falling  snow,  a  tremor  passed 
over  her  and  her  face  became  deathly  i)ale.  With  a  deep  sigh  she 
exclaimed  :  "  Dear,  dear,  what  a  horrid  place  this  is  !  I  heard  that  it 
was  so  beautiful.  It  would  kill  me  to  stay  here  :  I  should  jump  out 
the  window."  Said  I :  "  That  would  not  do  you  any  good  ;  for  )'ou 
would  light  in  the  garden  without  being  able  to  get  into  the  street." 


THE  enemy's  rrrv 


335 


of  January,  the 
sunset.      'I'he 

hour;  but  this 
ch  came  nAUm 
Jre  the  convent 

untimely  liour, 
(low  :  the  sister 
1  it  was  closed, 
nd  furs,  tripped 
:eps.  I  opened 
she  was  in  my 

was  Mrs.  Rey- 

)v  all  the  wrongs 
re  notes,  to  see 
■  either  of  us  to 
i  I  had  actually 
er  enemies  put 
y  blow  as  I  had 
But  I  repelled 
yield  to  me  a 
elf ;  and  I  told 
rriage  with  the 
nHicted  on  her. 
-■rstanding  that 
>od  concerning 
aving  caught  a 
tremor  i)assed 
deep  sigh  she 
I  heard  that  it 
3uld  jump  out 
good  ;  for  you 
)  the  street." 


"Then,"  said  she,  "  I  would  dash  my  lirains  against  the  wall,  for  I 
would  die  if  I  were  forced  to  remain  here  twenty-four  hours.  They 
all  say  that  you  are  pla)ing  the  hypocrite,  so  as  to  have  royal  spon- 
sors.  and  gain  favor  with  the  old  nobility.  lUit  I  don't  believe  it  /io7i>. 
I  am  sure  you  are  in  earnest;  for  a  kingdom  itself  would  not  com- 
jpcnsate  for  the  sacrifice  of  remaining  in  such  a  place  as  this  is  for  a 
week, — and  here  you  have  been  nearly  six  months  !   How  I  pity  you  !  " 

She  begged  my  pardon  over  and  over  again  for  all  the  mischief  she 
had  done  me ;  for  she  felt  that  she  perhaps  had  been,  in  a  measure, 
the  cause  of  condemning  me  to  such  a  gloomy  existence.  (Jloomy 
indeed  it  appeared  to  her,  compared  to  what  my  life  might  have  been 
in  the  brilliant  saloons  of  the  chateau  of  l'"lecheres, — where  she  had 
lived  for  several  months  with  the  Viscount's  daughter.  As  soon  as 
Mrs.  lieynolds  left  me,  I  recollected  that  this  was  one  of  the  things 
I  had  prayed  for  on  the  day  of  my  baptism. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

SIMPLICIIY     THE     TEST    OF    TRUE    NOBILITY. JEAN    JACQUES   TO    THE 

RESCUE. 

After  I  was  converted  and  received  into  the  Church,  I  found  that 
the  Mother  Superior  had  a  much  better  opinion  of  me  than  I  deserved. 
I  wished  to  undeceive  her,  but  was  perplexed  how  to  go  about  doing 
so,  without  letting  her  discover  my  bad  breeding.  I  feared,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  she  might  suspect,  with  my  American  friends,  that  I 
was  not  sincere ;  which  would  have  been  unjust;  for  I  was  sincere  as 
tar  as  I  went,  only  1  had  not  inbibed  the  self-sacrihcing  spirit  of 
Catholicity  as  much  as  she  and  her  community  were  charitable 
enough  to  believe. 

r  admired  and  could  applaud  the  self-sacrificing  Christian,  but  I 
iiad  not  the  slightest  intention  of  imitating  that  kind  of  Catholics. 
Even  while  saying  my  chajjlet,  I  never  once  meditated  on  the  dolo- 
rous mysteries.  I  meditated  on  the  joyful  and  glorious  ones,  always 
leaving  out  humility  and  obedience,  and  substituting  charity  and  the 
gifts  of  the  Holy  Gh.ost  in  their  place.  I  thought  that,  to  be  perfect, 
Cod  only  recpiired  of  me  to  be  chr.ste,  truthful  and  charitable  :  which 
last  virtue  I  confounded,  in  a  great  measure,  with  benevolence,  or 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14S80 

(716)  872-4503 


336 


GOOD   BREEDING. 


rather  liberality ;  for  I  had  not  seized  it  as  the  Bishop  had  tried  to 
make  nie  understand  it.  I  had  often  asked  the  cure  of  St.  Mande  if 
that  was  not  enough,  and  he  would  invariably  reply,  "  It  is  enough  for 
you  to  begi7t  ony 

In  spite  of  my  strong  and  sanguine  determination  to  always  speak 
the  truth,  I  found  that  I  was  continually  misrepresenting  things :  so 
that  I  imagined  that  I  was  every  day  growing  worse  than  I  had  ever 
been  before  in  my  life. 

I  began  to  be  discouraged,  and  complained  bitterly  of  myself  to 
my  director.  But  he  cheered  me  up,  and  told  me  that,  if  I  appeared 
so  much  worse  no»7  in  my  own  eyes,  it  was  because  I  had  never  paid 
any  attention  to  my  faults  before.  "As  we  grow  better,"  he  re- 
marked, "we  always  appear  worse  to  ourselves,  because,  the  nearer 
we  approach  God,  the  light  we  receive  from  Hin^  enables  us  better  to 
see  ourselves  as  we  are.  That  encouraged  me.  But  I,  who  had 
always  endeavored  to  conceal  my  bad  breeding,  found  that  it  re- 
quired an  almost  superhuman  effort  not  to  quarrel  with  the  Superior; 
a  temptation  I  had  never  had  before  my  conversion. 

The  Superior  was  a  lady  of  noble  origin,  and  extremely  well  bred ; 
but,  in  spiij  of  her  vast  experience,  and  her  wonderful  gift  of  reading 
character,  she  was  my  dupe ;  for  she  actually  believed  that  I  was  a 
thorough-bred  lady,  and  had  been  reared  so  from  my  cradle ;  and  this 
is  the  way  I  imposed  upon  her  : — /  never  complained^  never  boasted, 
and  always  gave  the  preference  to  others  over  myself.,  and  I  ichis 
always  self-possessed.  I  had  picked  up  this  piece  of  knowletlge,  or 
rather  tact,  by  mixing  with  the  O'Gormans  and  a  few  families  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

From  the  moment  I  was  introduced  among  the  old  nobility,  I  de- 
tected at  once  the  true  mark  of  distinction,  by  which  they  could  be 
invariably  distinguished  from  the  upstart  aristocracy,  which  had  risen 
with  the  empire.     This  invariable  mark  was  simplicity. 

I  discovered  that  those  who  were  ihc frankest,  the  most  ingenuous, 
the  most  modest  .a.nd  simple '\\\  their  address,  were  those  who  were 
the  most  accomplished,  the  most  refined,  and  who  were  of  the  best 
descent.  P'rom  a  lesson  the  Viscount  de  I.aferri(}re  taught  me  one 
day,  I  have  defmed  in  my  own  mind  good  breeding  to  be  nothing 
more  or  less  than  "  affected  humility."  I  was  one  day  at  the  palace, 
waiting  for  the  Viscount.  Near  me  sat  a  priest,  talking  with  one  of 
the  generals  of  the  imperial  staff.    The  manners  of  the  general  were 


op  had  tried  to 
of  St.  Mande  if 
[t  is  enough  for 

always  speak 
ting  things :  so 
han  I  had  ever 

\y  of  myself  to 
t,  if  I  appeared 

lad  never  paid 
better,"  he  re- 
use, the  nearer 
les  us  better  to 
ut  I,  who  liad 
md  that  it  re- 
1  the  Superior; 

lely  well  bred ; 

gift  of  reading 
1  that  I  was  a 
radle ;  and  tliis 
,  f/e7U'r  boasted^ 
elf,  and  I  was 

knowledge,  or 
families  in  the 

nobility,  I  de- 
thoy  could  be 
hich  had  risen 

• 

ost  iftgt'niioiis, 
lose  who  were 
re  of  the  best 
aught  me  one 
to  be  nothing 
at  the  palace, 
J  with  one  of 
general  were 


PROUD   HUMILITY. 


337 


intensely  vulgar,  while  those  of  the  priest  were  refined  :  not  a  gesture 
nor  an  expression  of  his  face  escaped  me,  and  I  concluded  that  he 
was  some  generous  soul  wlio  had  sacrificed  himself,  to  become  a 
servant  of  Christ.  When  the  Viscount  entered,  he  at  once  addressed 
a  few  words  to  me,  and  told  me  to  wait  until  he  could  dispatch  his 
guests.  After  their  departure,  alluding  to  the  priest,  I  said  to  Lafer- 
riere  that  I  did  not  see  how  such  a  nobleman  could  embrace  such  a 
life  of  abnegation.  The  Viscount  smiled,  and  said  to  me:  "You  are 
mistaken  this  time,  iox  your  nobleman  descends  from  a  peasant  near 
Flechdres.  But  he  is  an  humble  man  and  a  good  Christian  ;  and  this 
is  my  instruction  to  you  for  to-day:  that  humility  often  takes  the 
place  of  good  breeding,  and  is  much  preferred  to  it  by  the  t/ieo- 
cratical  aristocracy^  From  this  observation,  I  have  since  con- 
cluded that  gocd  breeding  was  nothing  but  affected  humility.  There- 
fore if  people  are  not  really  humble,  let  them  appear  so  at  least,  if 
they  wish  to  pass  for  well  bred. 

But  there  is  something  I  have  remarked  myself,  and  I  hold  it  to  be 
true, — for  I  have  found  it  to  be  so  in  all  circles  that  I  have  lived  in, 
both  at  home  and  abroaci, — it  is  this,  and  the  reader  may  set  it  down 
as  a  rule  : — Whenever  you  see  persons  constantly  complaining  that 
this  or  that  thing  is  not  good  enough  for  them,  hinting  that  they  are 
better  than  their  neighbors,  presuming  on  the  opinion  they  have  of 
their  own  superiority,  showing  it  by  trying  to  thrust  themselves  be- 
tween you  and  your  friends,  delighting  to  intrude  on  other  people's 
tete-a-tete,  or  ever  watching  for  an  occasion  to  "snub"  someone, 
who  is  not  as  well-off  in  the  world  as  themselves, — you  may  depend 
upon  it,  they  have  sprung  from  a  sewer,  or,  if  they  did  not  themselves, 
their  grandfather  did. 

To  return  to  my  subject :  I  always  strained  every  nerve  to  conceal 
that  I  had  come  out  of  a  gutter,  and  I  not  only  never  complained, 
but  1  went  still  farther.  I  nether  wondered.  I  learned  that  '■'■  Nil 
admirari"  was  the  motto  on  the  arms  of  Lord  Bolingbroke.  I  did 
not  fully  comprehend  its  signification  until  I  had  for  a  long  while 
practised  it.  But  one  day  I  was  at  Lord  Hereford's,  and  there  the 
signification  of  nil  admirari  came  across  my  mind  like  a  flash.  The 
first  lesson  the  English  nobility  teach  their  children  is  self-possession. 
If  they  are  angry,  envious,  jealous;  if  they  love  or  hate — they  must 
conceal  it ;  good  breeding  demands  it.  In  the  convents,  we  are  taught 
to  disclose  those  feelings  to  the  Supf^iior  oi  our  confessor,  so  that 
15 


338 


MY   PATIENCE  TESTED. 


In 


^i! 


they  may  assist  us  to  root  them  out  and  destroy  them  ;  for  Christianity 
demands  it.  But  I  preferred  the  EngHsh  way  as  yet,  as  I  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  it. 

The  mofnent  I  became  a  professed  Cathohc,  the  Superior  put  my 
frail  Christian  patience  and  my  sham  good-breeding  to  a  fearful  test. 
Formerly  she  refused  me  nothing  that  was  consistent  with  the  rules  ; 
but  now  I  noticed  a  general  falling  oflf  in  little  things.  No  doubt  tiie 
Reverend  Mother  thought  that  I  wanted  to  suffer  a  little  too,  in  order 
to  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  But  I  became  a  Christian 
out  of  love  for  myself,  and  not  for  the  love  of  Christ.  I  wanted  to 
be  happy :  for  I  was  devoured  with  ennui,  remorse,  and  disappointed 
love.  I  was  seeking  for  relief:  Christianity  presented  itself,  and  I 
accepted  it,  after  despairing  of  finding  anything  betcer,  and  I  was  de- 
termined to  give  it  a  good/«/>  trial.  But  I  had  no  idea  of  suffering. 
If  I  had  thought  that  that  was  included  in  the  bargain,  I  never  could 
have  been  induced  to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  I  became  a 
Christian  to  be  happy ;  andj  after  all  that  I  had  gone  through  how 
would  it  have  been  possible  to  convince  me  that  true  happiness  was 
to  be  found  in  suffering  ? 

I  called  myself  a  Christian,  because  I  had  been  baptized ;  and  I 
tried  to  practise  three  or  four  Christian  virtues,  which  I  believed  to  be 
the  only  ones  of  importance.  I  thought  I  was  good  enough  then  :  yet 
to  my  surprise  \  was  anything  but  happy.  The  unaccustomed  rebuffs 
T  was  receiving  in  the  convent  made  me  suffer  keenly.  I  would  iiave 
found  them  trifling  in  themselves  (as  they  really  were),  had  not 
my  pride  made  me  morbidly  sensitive.  But  I  never  admitted 
to  my  confessor  how  dreadfully  angry  I  would  get  at  times  ;  for  I 
did  not  consider  that  that  was  my  fault.  I  looked  upon  it  as  a 
part  of  the  Reverend  Mother's  sins,  which  she  would  have  to  answer 
for. 

One  day  I  wanted  to  go  out  skating  in  the  Park  of  Vincennes,  and 
I  had  sent  word  to  the  Superior  that  I  wished  a  Sister  to  accompany 
me,  without  whom  I  could  not  go  out ;  I  was  all  dressed,  in  my  skat- 
ing costume,  ready  to  go  ;  and  was  already  impatient  to  be  obliged 
to  wait  for  the  Sister.  At  lapt,  when  my  impatience  had  reached  its 
height,  Madam  Xavier  came  with  a  message  from  the  Superior,  to  tell 
me  that  all  the  Sisters  wt le  engaged,  and  there  was  no  one  to  accom- 
pany me,  so  that  I  would  be  obliged  to  defer  my  skating. 

I  knew  very  well  that  the  Rev.  Mother  was  aware  that  her  refusal 


AN   OLD   STORY    ADAPTED. 


339 


would  be  superlatively  disagreeable  to  me,  or  she  would  not  have 
called  Madam  Xavier  from  the  school-room  to  bring  me  the  mes- 
sage. Madam  Xavier  simply  delivered  the  message  as  graciously 
as  she  could,  then  remained  silent,  expecting  a  reply.  I  could  feel 
that  she  was  looking  intently  at  me,  although  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the 
floor ;  for  I  was  afraid  that  if  she  could  see  me  full  in  the  face,  she 
would  detect  there  something  besides  Christian  resignation,  or  the  ex- 
pression of  a.  well-bred  person  who  was  always  self-possessed.  After 
we  had  remained  in  this  awkward  position  for  a  few  seconds,  Madam 
Xavier  gently  inquired  if  I  had  any  answer  that  I  wished  her  to  take 
back  to  the  Keverend  Mother. 

She  had  hardly  si)oken  when  a  thought  struck  me,  and  I  replied  to 
her :  "  Yes,  I  will  tell  you'  a  story,  and  my  story  is  the  answer  you 
will  take  back  to  your  Reverend  Superior  ;  "  and  emphasizing  the  last 
words,  1  burst  out  laughing.  She  was  horrified  at  my  tone  and  my 
laughter ;  but  that  soon  passed  off,  for  in  a  moment  afterwards  she 
thought  that  I  was  in  the  best  possible  humor. 

I  told  the  story  without  any  regard  to  the  way  Jean  Jacques  re- 
lated it.  But  as  i  was  sure  that  no  one  in  the  convent  would  ever 
read  /lis  confessions,  I  knew  there  was  no  danger  of  my  ever  being 
found  out ;  so  I  related  it  to  suit  myself,  hoping  that  my  interpola- 
tions and  deviations  might  help  me  to  carry  my  point. 

Said  I :  "  Tell  your  Rev.  Superior  that,  once  upon  a  time,  Jean  Jac- 
ques Rousseau,  when  he  was  a  lad,  went  to  Turin,  where  he  found 
himself  without  any  money  or  friends,  not  knowing  where  he  was 
going  to  sup  or  to  sleep.  As  he  had  excellent  letters  he  applied  to 
the  Hospital  of  the  Catechumens  in  that  city,  where  he  was  kindly  re- 
ceived ;  and  he  entered  there  at  once  as  a  catechumen.  They  all  went 
assiduously  to  work  to  try  to  convert  him.  But  he  was  well  versed 
in  Protestant  controversy,  which  he  had  learned  at  Geneva,  and, 
while  they  were  trying  to  convert  him,  he  was  doing  his  best  to  con- 
vert them,  thinking  it  was  the  same  with  the  Catholics  as  it  was  with 
the  Protestants,  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  beat  them  in  an  argu- 
ment, in  order  to  reason  them  out  of  their  faith.  He  pretends  that 
he  came  off  at  first  victorious,  and  those  who  had  first  unciertaken  to 
instruct  him  retreated,  to  give  place  to  a  master  who  was  as  dispua- 
tious  as  himself,  but  who  possessed  far  more  learning,  experience 
and  skill. 

•'  Whenever  Jean  Jacques  would  assert  anything  in  opposition  to 


340 


JEAN  JACQUES'   MISTAKE. 


I 


what  his  new  instructor  said,  and  would  name  his  authority,  the  other 
would  deny  that  such  an  author  had  ever  said  any  such  thing,  and  lie 
would  liand  him  a  large  Latin  folio,  and  defy  him  to  find  any  passage  of 
the  kind  in  the  book  ;  and  thereby  the  master  would  beat  him,  because 
Jean  Jacques  was  a  poor  Latin  scholar,  and  it  might  have  been  in  the 
book  twenty  times  without  his  being  able  to  find  it,  and  if  he  had 
found  it,  his  instructor  would  have  been  sure  to  translate  it  to  suit 
his  own  theory.  This  master  was  as  tenacious  and  as  persevering  as 
Jean  Jacques  was  obstinate  and  conceited,  and  they  continued  to 
dispute  week  after  week  and  month  after  month,  without  success.  In 
the  meanwhile,  they  coaxed  him,  they  petted  him,  they  gave  him 
bon-bons  and  tarts,  to  try  to  induce  him  to  become  a  real  Christian, 
and  be  baptized  in  the  Catholic  faith  ;  but  Jean  Jacques  was  inex- 
orable. 

"At  last  an  archbishop  came  to  pass  a  few  days  at  the  hospital,  and 
Jean  Jacques,  who,  by  this  time,  had  become  tired  of  his  paui)er  ex- 
istence, and  filled  with  ambitious  aspirations,  thought  that  it  woidd 
be  a  splendid  thing,  after  all,  for  him  to  become  a  Catholic.  He 
imagined  that  the  whole  institution  must  be  in  admiration  of  his 
talents  and  address,  and  that  they  would  not  fail  to  recommend  him 
to  the  archbi.shop,  who  might  probably  make  him  one  of  his  secre- 
taries. This  consideration  decided  his  conversion,  and  he  announced 
his  desire  to  be  baptized.  The  next  day  his  indefatigable  instructor, 
to  whom  he  had  given  so  much  trouble,  washed  him  and  combed  his 
hair,  dressed  him  up  in  a  gray  suit,  and  placing  in  his  hand  a  lighted 
taper,  led  him  to  the  altar.  Lnmiidiately  after  he  was  baptized, 
the  same  person  led  him  back  into  the  sacristy,  made  him  take  off 
his  gray  dress,  and  put  on  his  old  clothes  ;  then,  placing  a  few  francs 
in  his  hand,  he  conducted  him  to  the  door,  and  kicked  him  into  the 
street,  cursing  him  for  having  given  him  so  much  trouble  and  for 
having  held  out  so  long. 

"Jean  Jacques  hastened  away,  as  fast  as  he  could,  reflecting,  as  he 
did  so,  that  he  little  thought  that  morning,  when  he  was  meditating 
what  palace  he  should  live  in,  that  in  the  evening  he  should  find  him- 
self in  the  street ;  and,  as  the  shadows  of  night  came  on,  he  began 
to  sigh  for  his  comfortable  quarters,  his  wonted  caresses,  his  bon-bons 
|,nd  tarts,  and  ):",  at  Ip.st,  thought  to  himself  what  a  big  fool  he  had 
been,  not  to  hold  out  lott^er" 

Said  I  to  Madam  Xavier  :  "After  you  have  told  this  story  to  Rev. 


^> 


t 


•ty,  the  other 
[tiling,  and  he 
|"y  passage  of 
him,  l)ecaii.s(; 
been  in  tlie 
"<J  if  he  liad 
te  it  to  sin't 
^severing  as 
ontinued  to 
success.   Ill 
ey  gave  him 
-al  Christian, 
es  was  inex- 

fiospital,  and 
s  pauper  ex- 
'lat  it  would 
itholic.     He 
ration  of  his 
ommend  hiui 
^(  his  secre- 
-  announced 
e  instructor, 
combed  his 
lid  a  hghted 
s    baptized, 
lini  take  off 
1  few  francs 
ini  into  the 
ole  and  for 

^ting,  as  he 
iiedilating 
I  find  hini- 
he  began 
'  bon-bons 
ol  he  ha<I 

y  to  Rev. 


I   GAIN    MY   POINT. 


341 


Mother,  please  tell  her  that  I  think  Jean  Jacques  was  right,  that  he 
was  a  fool ;  for  he  should  have  /le/d  out  longer." 

Madam  Xavier  left  me  at  once.  In  about  half  an  hour,  a  Sister 
came  and  told  me  that  the  Rev.  Mother  had  sent  her  to  accompany 
me  to  the  park.  Returning  I  saw  Madam  Xavier,  and  I  asked  her  if 
she  had  delivered  my  message.  "Yes,"  she  replied;  "but  I  did  not 
wait  for  a  reply,  for  the  Superior-General  was  with  Rev.  Mother, 
and  as  soon  as  I  finished  your  story  I  left  the  room.  But  1  could 
hear  them  laughing  until  I  reached  the  study-hall." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  the  Superior,  who  received  me  more  af- 
fectionately than  usual.  We  both  laughed  heartily,  but  we  never 
once  referred  to  the  story.  It  had  the  desired  effect,  however ;  for 
it  brought  back  all  my  former  privileges,  and  I  never  had  reason  af- 
terwards to  complain  of  the  Superior.  She  was  no  doubt  convinced 
that,  if  I  ever  became  a  saint,  it  would  only  be  by  slow  degrees,  and 
that  it  would  require  the  hand  of  time. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

GENERAL     ROIXIN's      IDEA     OF     A     "RETREAT." — MADAME     XAVIER'S 

ANTIDOTE    FOR   SORROW. 

From  that  day  I  became  more  and  more  contented  with  my  con- 
vent home.  I  continued  my  studies ;  but  my  history  lesson  was 
replaced  by  a  Religious  coming  in  every  afternoon  at  three  o'clock, 
and  reading  to  me  until  dark.  She  read  to  me  the  Life  of  Jesus.  It 
was  beautifully  written.  I  fear  I  have  forgotten  the  author's  name, 
but  I  think  it  was  the  Abbe  Borrasseau. 

I  remember,  during  one  of  these  readings,  having  horrified  the 
Religious  by  asking  her  how  many  brothers  our  Lord  had ;  for  I  re- 
membered that  Renan  had  stated  that  Christ  had  several  brothers. 
When  she  got  over  her  astonishment,  she  said  to  me  that  my  histo- 
rian, Mr.  Renan,  was  probably  not  a  Hebrew  scholar,  and  if  he  was, 
he  must  have  been  a  very  poor  one,  if  he  quoted  the  New  Testa- 
ment to  verify  such  an  assertion  ;  for  the  word  brothers,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  Hebrews,  was  used  indiscriminately  for  brothers 
or  relatives,  because  in  that  language  the  same  word  signified  either ; 


& 


\ 


\\ 


i 


I 


I  \  *> 


342 


A   HALLOWED   SCENE. 


4      I 


and  then,  if  our  Lord  had  brothers,  in  the  sense  that  Renan  gives 
to  that  word,  why  did  He  confide  the  care  of  His  mother  to  John 
His  disciple  ?  The  moments  I  passed  at  this  reading  lesson  were 
among  the  happiest  I  ever  knew ;  for,  even  then,  the  whole  scene  in 
the  life  of  our  Lord,  to  the  description  of  which  I  listened,  would 
appear  to  me  like  a  beautiful  living  tableau. 

The  nun  used  to  seat  herself  near  the  window,  and  the  last  rays 

of  a  wintei-'s  sunset  would  peer  through  the  branches  of  the  cedar 

.of  I^ebanon,  and  fall  on  the  form  of  that  pure  and  lovely  creature, 

who,  in  soft  and  gentle  accents,  read  to  me  the  life  and  words  of  Him 

to  wh(>m  she  had  given  her  all. 

I  could  feel,  by  every  word,  look,  tone,  and  gesture,  that  in  that 
body  dwelt  a  soul  that  was  most  pleasing  to  the  God  .nade  Man.  I 
would  sit,  listening  attentively  to  every  word  she  uttered,  but  ever  re- 
gretting the  declining  day^  whose  last  twilight  glimmers  fell,  like  a 
mysterious  curtain,  upon  a  hallowed  scene. 

Spring  came,  and,  one  bright  afternoon,  Madam  Xavier  came  to 
give  me  my  lesson.  We  were  very  happy  and  were  laying  out  plans 
for  the  Summer,  when  we  happened  to  look  out  of  the  window,  and 
saw  two  men  standing  on  the  lawn  in  close  conversation,  who  every 
now  and  then  would  point  towards  the  chateau. 

Madam  Xavier  turned  pale.  I  asked  her  what  was  the  matter. 
She  told  me  that  these  men  were  the  Father-General  of  their  order 
and  their  architect,  and  she  feared  they  were  deciding  to  build  on 
that  side  of  the  street,  and  not  purchase  the  property  where  the  con- 
vent actually  stood,  as  had  been  once  determined. 

In  the  evening  the  Superior  came  and  told  me  that  they  owned  the 
property  which  was  attached  to  the  chateau,  but  the  grounds  and 
buildings  on  the  other  side  of  the  stieet,  which  joined  on  the  Park  of 
Vincennes,  were  only  leased.  As  the  lease  w'ould  expire  in  three 
years,  the  Superior-General  had  decided  to  repair  the  chateau,  and 
build  an  addition  to  it,  and  thus  convert  it  into  a  convent. 

Of  course  the  chateau  could  not  be  inhabited  from  the  moment 
they  began  the  repairs.  Through  the  influence  of  my  Godmother, 
Princess  Iza,  I  secured  apartments  at  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois,  an  an- 
cient monastery  situated  in  the  Rue  de  Sevres,  about  ten  minutes* 
walk  from  the  Tuileries.  It  is  an  immense  building,  whose  walls  en- 
close large,  spacious  gardens. 

The  object  to  which  this  place  is  dedicated  is  two-fold,  each  be- 


THE   ABBAYE   AUX   BOIS. 


343 


iRenan  gives 
f'^er  to  John 
lesson  were 
Jiole  scene  in 
pned,  would 

[he  last  rays 

3f  the  cedar 

-ly  creature, 

lords  of  Hini 

that  in  that 
fie  Man.     I 
but  ever  re- 
fell,  like  a 

er  came  to 
?  out  plans 
indow,  and 


who 


every 


■he  matter, 
their  order 
•  build  on 
e  the  con- 
owned  the 
Hmds  and 
e  Park  of 
ill  three 
teau,  and 

Jiion)eni 
tliiiother, 
s,  an  an- 
minutes* 
k'alls  en- 

jach  be- 


ing entirely  distinct  from  the  other.  The  interior  of  the  Abbey  is 
devoted  to  the  educr.cion  of  children, while  the  exterior  is  let  out  to 
widows  or  ladies  of  the  nobility  who  wish  to  lead  a  life  of  seclusion 
and  retirement,  without  being  obliged  to  enter  a  convent. 

The  Religious  who  have  the  superintendence  of  the  institution  are 
cloistered,  and  always  converse  with  the  outside  world  from  behind  a 
grating,  while  their  faces  remained  concealed  beneath  a  black  serge 
veil.  Those  who  hire  apartments  at  the  Abbey  are  perfectly  inde- 
pendent of  the  institution.  It  is  considered  a  great  privilege  for  a 
lady  to  be  received  there,  and  objections  were  made  at  first  about  re- 
ceiving me,  on  account  of  my  youth,  and  because  I  was  an  American. 
Their  apartments  were  seldom  let  except  to  ladies  who  were  well 
known  to  the  nuns  and  their  society. 

I  set  right  to  work  to  furnish  my  apartments,  which  consisted  of 
two  suites  of  rooms.  In  a  few  weeks  I  had  them  arranged  in  almost 
regal  style. 

I  was  delighted  with  the  change  which  apparently  forced  me  back 
into  the  world,  and  which  made  my  reappearance  in  society  appear 
a  necessity,  not  a  choice. 

It  was  soon  noised  about  that  the  chateau  was  going  to  be  repaired, 
and  how  much  the  nuns  regretted  to  have  me  leave  them,  and  how 
dejected  I  was  to  go.  I  pretended  to  be  sorry,  too,  while  I  was  in 
heart  delighted  to  get  away,  for  the  restraint  became  galling  the  mo- 
ment I  saw  my  chance  of  escape.  I  loved  the  nuns,  but  I  loved  the 
world  and  Laferriere  more.  His  devotion  to  me,  from  the  day  I 
entered  the  convent  until  the  moment  I  left,  had  been  untiring,  and 
he  became  dearer  to  me  than  ever ;  I  also  knew  that,  under  the  cir- 
stances,  my  return  to  Paris  would  be  a  perfect  triumph.  I  was  so 
full  of  joy  that  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  gates  of  Heaven  itself  were 
opening  to  receive  me,  every  time  I  turned  my  thoughts  towards  the 
beautiful  city.  From  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  intoned  continual 
chants  of  praise  to  God  ;  for  I  ttributed  all  my  happiness  to  Him, 
as  I  formerly  had  all  my  sorrows,  and  I  thought  that  this  was  to  be 
my  reward  for  having  been  good.  I  felt  that  the  sacrifices  I  had 
/nade  and  intended  to  make,  merited  a  glorious  return,  and  my  ap- 
proaching triumph  redoubled  my  faith  ;  I  believed  that  God  was 
treating  me  like  a  pet  child,  in  giving  me  at  once  all  that  I  could  de- 
sire. And  to  complete  my  happiness,  I  was  sure  that  my  nuptials 
with  Laferriere  would  soon  follow,  because  his  daughter  was  then 


344 


THE   GENERAL  CHARGES   AGAIN. 


im 


lying  dangerously  ill.  I  became  more  devout  and  fervent  than  ever, 
and  every  morning  I  would  rise  and  gather  a  bunch  of  violets,  which 
I  placed  on  the  little  rustic  altar  in  the  garden,  at  the  feet  of  the 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  I  did  everything  that  I  thought  woiiUl 
be  most  agreeable  to  God,  to  show  Him  my  gratitude  for  His  good- 
ness. 

General  Rollin  was  among  the  first  to  drive  out  to  congratulate 
me  on  the  prospect  of  my  return.  He  expressed  himself  as  though  I 
ought  to  be  canonized,  for  not  letting  myself  "  be  caught ; "  for  he 
had  given  me  up,  until  Laferriere  came  and  announced  to  him  that  I 
was  coming  back  once  more,  to  reside  in  the  gay  city.  I  said  to  the 
general,  and  he  frowned  as  I  s])oke,  that  I  could  not  understond  his 
aversion  to  such  holy  souls,  for  I  truly  admired  them,  and  sincerely 
loved  them,  but  I  had  not  the  virtue  to  imitate  them. 

He  smiled  and  said  to  me  :  "  Now  you  speak  like  a  little  saint. 
Admire  them,  and  love  theni,  as  nmch  as  y  )u  please;  but  never  be 
one  of  them, — for  I  would  like  to  know  what  a  woman  is  good  for, 
the  moment  she  takes  a  mania  for  the  cap  and  veil?"  "  Well,"  said 
I,  "  General,  you  will  not  deny  that  they  do  a  great  deal  of  good." 
"Yes,"  replied  the  general,  "  and  that  is  just  the  reason  we  will  never 
be  able  to  get  r'd  of  them  ;  for  they  always  have  some  friend  at  court 
to  throw  uj:  their  good  works  into  everybody's  face.  I  believe  a 
woman's  mission  is  to  get  married,  and  have  children.  Where  would 
you  and  1  have  been  if  our  parents  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to 
make  monks  and  nuns  of  themselves  ?  " 

"  They  say  here,"  said  I,  "  that  there  will  always  be  plenty  of 
women  in  the  world  to  have  children,  and  there  will  never  be  enough 
who  will  devote  themselves  to  save  them.  They  say  that  their  mis- 
sion is  to  save  souls,  and  not  to  bring  them  into  the  world  ;  that  if  a 
child  is  born  and  goes  to  hell,  it  would  have  been  better  for  that  child 
had  it  never  been  born." 

"  Yes,  but  for  myself,"  replied  the  general,  "I  prefer  being  born,  and 
to  run  the  risk  ;  and  you  will  think  so  too,  the  moment  you  get  out 
of  here.  They  have  killed  more  men  than  they  have  ever  saved  ;  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  just  when  a  man  has  fallen  in  love  with  a 
woman,  she  chooses  that  moment  to  shut  herself  up  in  one  of  those 
places.  1  never  will  forgive  them  for  seducing  my  beautiful  friend^ 
whom  I  have  never  seen  nor  heard  of  since."  I  began  to  inquire 
about  some  of  my  acquaintances  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  months, 


REPOSING  one's   HAIR. 


345 


lent  than  ever, 

violets,   wliich 

jhe  feet  of  the 

jthoiight  would 

for  His  good- 

congraliilatc 
W as  though  I 
fglit ;  "  for  he 
to  Jiini  tliat  1 
i  said  to  the 
•nderstand  his 
^^u\  sincerely 

a  little  saint. 

but  never  be 
"  is  good  for, 

"  Well,"  said 
;al  of  good." 
we  will  never 
iend  at  court 

I  believe  a 
^Vhere  would 
^eir  heads  to 

e  plenty  of 
>■  be  enough 
Lt  their  niis- 
d  ;  that  if  a 
T  that  child 

J  born,  and 
oil  get  out 
saved;  for 
ove  with  a 
e  of  those 
ifiil  friend 
to  inquire 
r  months, 


and  I  expressed  my  joy  at  seeing  once  more  Madam  "  du  Monde,"  a 
lady  wholly  devoted  to  the  world.  The  general  quickly  replied : 
"You  will  not  see  her  for  a  few  weeks  to  come,  for  she  has  gone  into 
retreat."  I  expressed  my  surprise,  and  told  the  general  that  I  never 
suspected  her  of  being  so  devout. 

"  Devout  !"  said  the  general:  "  I  don't  see  what  devotion  has  to 
do  with  "t.  She  has  simply  retired  to  the  chateau  pour  re/>oser  ses 
chcveiix"  I  thought  surely  he  meant  horses  {chevaux),  and  I  said  to 
him,  "  Why  does  she  not  keep  two  span  ?  "  "  Chercux,  chevcux,  en- 
fant:  these  women  have  made  you  forget  your  French."  "What," 
said  I,  with  an  outburst  of  laughter,  "she  has  gone  into  retreat  (as 
you  call  it)  to  rest  her  hair  ?  I  suppose  her  director  then  is  her 
coiffeur  (hair-dresser)."  '*  Yes,"  replied  the  general,  seriously,  "  and 
a  very  honest  one  at  that ;  for  he  loses  by  her  going  into  retreat. 
But  you  know  that  Madam  *  du  Monde '  has  not  missed  a  ball,  soiree, 
concert,  matinee,  or  f6te  this  winter  ;  and  it  appears  that  her  hair  is 
so  fatigued,  after  so  much  dying,  puffing,  curling,  crimping,  braiding, 
etc.,  that  her  coiffeur  says  she  must  rest  it,  or  she  will  lose  every  bit 
of  it."  ' 

The  general  made  me  a  present  of  a  magnificent  crucifix,  which 
he  had  made  to  order  expressly  for  me  at  Barbedienne's.  He  also 
gave  me  beautiful  ornaments  for  my  new  home  in  porcelain  of 
Sevres  for  my  dining-room,  and  paintings  for  my  parlors,  and  had 
Asiatic  plants  arranged  in  front  of  the  mirrors,  which  gave  my  apart- 
ment an  Oriental  appearance. 

As  the  time  approached  to  leave  the  convent,  my  impatience  grew 
greater  and  greater.  My  heart  was  light  and  gay :  I  had  entirely 
forgotten  all  about  my  former  ennui  and  satiety,  and  I  began  once 
more  to  build  castles  higher  than  ever.  I  consented  to  leave  my 
child  at  St.  Mande  another  year.  Madam  Xavier  was  the  one  who 
regretted  my  departure  most ;  for  she  was  the  most  attached  to  me. 
She  advised  me  like  a  fond  sister,  and  tried  to  tear  the  illusion  from 
my  heart  that  I  would  one  day  espouse  Laferri^re.  She  assured  me 
that  something  told  her  that  God  never  intended  I  should  be  his 
wife.  I  laughed  at  her  predictions ;  but  she  would  take  every  op- 
portunity to  say  to  me  thcvt  I  would  never  be  happy  until  I  had  de- 
tached myself  from  him.  On  the  eve  of  my  departure  she  taught  me 
in  Spanish  the  following  prayer,  and  told  me  that  I  would  find  in  it 
an  antidote  to  sorrow  and  care  : 

15*  .  ■ 


:iir 


34^  FAUEWKLL   TO   ST.    MAND6. 

Let  nothing  trouble  thee  ; 
Let  nothing  terrify  thee  ; 
All  passes  away ; 
God  never  changes ; 
Patience  obtains  everything ; 
Who  possesses  God 
Lacks  nothing  ;      . 
God  alone  suffices. 

I  told  her  I  was  sure  that  all  my  sorrows  were  at  an  end,  for  1 
could  not  see  any  cloud  on  my  horizon  ;  that  my  sojourn  in  the  con- 
vent had  had  just  the  effect  1  had  anticipated  and  hoped  for  :  it  had 
either  killed  my  enemies  or  taken  the  venom  out  of  their  shafts.  }')Ut 
she  shook  her  head  doubtingly  and  told  me  that  she  did  not  believe 
that  God  would  exempt  me  from  trial  and  sufferings,  as  they  are  the 
common  lot  of  all.  She  macje  me  promise  that  whenever  I  was  sad 
I  would  say  her  little  prayer  and  meditate  on  it,  for  it  contained  a 
great  trutji ;  and  whenever  I  did  repeat  it,  I  was  to  think  of  her  and 
the  happy  days  I  had  passed  at  St.  Mande. 


CHAPTER    LXVin. 


MY  ENEMIES  VANQUISHED. — PLEASURE  PALLS. — I  ENVY  THE  LOWLY. 

1  HAD  calculated  well ;  for  my  return  to  Paris  was  like  a  trium))!. 
1  believed  that  I  had  at  last  conquered  every  obstacle  and  misfortune 
which  had  beset  my  path  since  the  hour  I  was  born. 

I  ha;!  not  been  residing  long  at  the  abbey  before  1  received  an 
invitation  from  Mrs.  Dix  to  come  to  her  daughter's  wedding.  I  went, 
and  was  most  cordially  received,  not  only  by  the  family,  but  by  all 
those  who  had  formerly  been  my  persecutors.  Mrs.  Dix  called  soon 
afterwards  to  see  me  at  the  abbey,  the  interior  of  which  she  desired 
to  see,  because  it  had  once  been  the  residence  of  the  famous  French 
beauty,  Madam  Recamier.  Mrs.  Dix  was  charmed  with  my  apart- 
ments, which  had  at  one  time  been  the  home  of  Madun  de  Genlis. 
She  was  delighted  with  her  visit,  and  from  that  day  she  I  ecaine  a 
sincere  friend  to  me. 


WORLDLY   SUCCESS. 


347 


an  end,  fo,-  i 
rn  in  the  ron- 
^'  ^or  :  it  had 
1-  shafts.    }}i,t 
id  not  believe 
they  are  tlie 
^'er  I  was  sad 
contained  a 
^  of  her  and 


'"HE  LOWI.V. 

e  a  triunipl. 
i  misfortune 

I'eceived  an 
y-     I  went, 
,  but  by  all 
called  soon 
'he  desired 
3US  P>ench 
niy  apart- 
cle  Genlis, 
I  ecame  a 


Mrs.  Dix  afterwards  told  nie  of  all  the  influences  which  had  been 
brought  to  bear  to  prejudice  her  against  me.  In  fact,  she  said  some 
Americans  almost  went  on  their  knees  to  implore  her  not  to  receive 
me.  liut  the  moment  she  heard  that  1  was  received  by  the  C/ar- 
toryskis,  and  that  the  Princess  Iza  was  my  Godmother,  she  began  to 
suspect  that  envy  and  jealousy  had  had  their  part  in  prejudicing  others 
against  me,  and  she  resolved  to  make  my  accjuaintance  and  judge  foi 
herself.  I  felt  that  I  owed  Mrs.  Dix's  friendship  to  the  prayer  which 
1  had  made  at  the  altar  on  the  day  I  was  baptized. 

'J"he  moment  Mrs.  Dix  declared  herself  my  friend,  my  position  in 
Paris  was  secure.  Peo])le  seemed  to  get  tired  of  fighting  me ;  they 
gave  it  up,  and  I  had  no  further  difficulty.  My  residence  at  the  abbey 
was  a  great  source  of  protection. 

Laferriere  and  RoUin  were  so  delighted  to  have  me  once  more  near 
them,  that  they  became  to  me  like  two  devoted  slaves.  They  refused 
nie  nothing  that  it  was  in  their  power  to  bestow ;  so  that  my  rooms 
were  crowded  with  people  who  sought  my  patronage  and  influence. 
Besides,  there  were  half  a  dozen  other  dignitaries  who  called  on  me 
occasionally,  who  were  as  influential  as  l.aferri^re.  I  seldom  under- 
took to  obtain  anything  but  what  I  was  sure  to  succeed.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  1  was  not  only  sought  after  by  the  rich,  but  my 
antechamber  was  sometimes  thronged  with  the  poor. 

This  excitement  delighted  me  at  first.  It  was  what  I  had  often 
craved  during  my  cloistered  life  at  St.  Mande,  and  every  night  I  would 
retire,  wondering  how  I  could  have  ever  stood  it  there  so  long.  But 
my  vanity  was  soon  surfeited :  I  began  to  long  for  the  quiet  and 
peace  of  the  convent,  and  two  months  had  not  passed  before  I  would 
steal  away  to  St.  Mande,  sometimes  two  or  three  times  a  week. 

I  went  to  St.  Mande  to  be  confirmed.  I  was  at  the  altar,  waiting 
for  the  archbishop  to  confirm  me,  when  the  a^re  of  St.  Maude  said, 
"  What  name  will  you  take  ?  Choose  one  that  you  have  not  been 
baptized  by."  And  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  speak,  he  added : 
"  Take  the  name  of  Genevieve,"  which  I  did. 

Meanwhile,  I  went  regularly  every  morning  to  mass,  and  would  re- 
ceive holy  communion  once  or  twice  a  week.  I  went  usually  tc  St. 
Sulpice,  after  which  I  would  take  a  stroll  up  to  the  Pantheon,  to  say 
a  little  prayer  before  the  altar  of  St.  Genevieve  :  and  I  imagined, 
whenever  I  failed  to  go  there,  that  everything  went  wrong  the  rest 
of  the  day.    At  that  time  I  thought  I  had  religion,  whereas  I  had 


ii  •'.  urn 

'^     U    .       I  'nil 


I't ; 


I:     ]■■» 


5'  V 


?' 


i 

:| 

1 

1! 

lj 

u 

148  CONSCIENCE   AND   HEART. 

oi)ly  the  phantom  of  it.  Religion  had  triumphed  over  me  ;  it  had 
seized  hold  of  my  conscience ;  but  Laferriere  had  my  heart,  and  1 
found  that  I  could  no  more  wrest  my  conscience  from  (iod,  than  1 
could  my  heart  from  Laferriere.  The  training  I  had  received  at 
the  convent  had  made  a  lasting  impression  on  my  soul.  It  had  en- 
lightened me.  In  vain  I  tried  to  close  my  eyes  to  the  light,  or  to 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  remorse  :  the  instant  [  committed  the  slightest 
offence  against  God,  I  was  miserable  until  1  had  obtained  absolu- 
tion. 

When  I  first  came  to  the  abbey  to  reside,  I  did  not  go  out  even- 
ings, as  the  doors  closed  at  eleven  o'clock.  At  first  I  was  contented 
to  lead  this  semi-cloistered  life  ;  but  I  soon  found  it  excessively  stu- 
pid, and  I  began  to  grow  low-spirited,  just  because  I  could  not  get 
into  the  abbey  after  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 

I  soon  discovered  that  the  old  man  who  had  charge  of  the  gate, 
and  who  had  been  the  porter  of  the  abbey  for  over  twenty  years,  was 
as  easily  bribed  as  the  parish  bell-ringer  at  St.  Mande.  He  was  suf- 
fering with  the  liver  complaint,  and  I  began  by  giving  him  bottles  of 
Vichy  water.  One  day  I  put  a  Napoleon  on  the  cork,  which  made 
the  old  man's  eyes  sparkle,  as  he  gratefully  exclaimed :  "  Merci, 
vierc'i,  madame ;  " — and  he  told  me  that  it  was  more  than  all  the  old 
women  in  the  convent  had  given  him  for  the  i)ast  six  months, — they 
always  gave  him  a  few  francs  every  Christmas,  but  that  was  tiie  last  un- 
til Christmas  again.  "  Oh,"  said  I,  ")'0u  know  this  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Christmas,  for,  at  Christmas,  I  intend  to  make  you  a  handsome 
present  for  having  let  me  out  ;  but  I  think  that  it  is  worth  four  bottles 
of  Vichy  water  a  month,  with  a  Napoleon  besides,  to  be  always  let  in." 
The  old  man  thought  so,  too,  and  he  told  me,  t'.iat  whenever  I  came 
home  after  the  hour,  1  must  not  let  the  coachman  drive  up  to  tlie 
convent-gate,  but  walk  a  few  steps  and  then  rap  on  his  window  witli 
my  fan,  and  if  he  saw  that  there  was  no  dangei  of  being  caught,  he 
would  let  me  in.  As  this  was  too  great  a  risk  always  to  run,  I  en- 
gaged a  room  next  door  to  the  abbey,  so  that,  in  case  the  old  man 
dared  not  open  the  gate,  I  could  go  there  and  sleep  ;  and  this  system 
we  kept  up  until  the  old  man  died. 

His  successor  was  a  hale,  hearty  youth  who  served  at  the  altar.  1 
never  attempted  to  bribe  him,  for  I  was  sure  that  he  would  refuse  : 
so,  whenever  I  remained  out  late  at  night,  I  would  sleej)  in  the  room 
outside  the  gale.     The  Religious  murmured ;  but  1  told  them  it  \va« 


FOND   MEMORY. 


349 


^^^''  '"e  ;  it  had 
\y  'leait,  and  I 
I"  <'0(J,  tluiii  1 
U  received  at 
K  it  had  en- 
t'le  light,  or  to 
the  slightest 
(tained  absolii- 

t  go  out  cven- 
■vas  contented 
xcessively  stu- 
could  not  get 

of  the  gate, 
nty  years,  was 

He  was  siif- 
'iiii  bottles  of 
,  which  made 
'ed:   "J/,vv7. 
an  all  the  old 
lonths,— they 
as  the  last  im- 
iiothing  to  do 
a  handsome 
1  four  bottles 
hoays  Idinr 
lever  I  came 
-  up   to  the 
^vindow  uith 
:  caught,  he 
3  nin,  I  en- 
he  old  man 
this  system 

le  altar.  1 
•Id  refuse : 
1  the  room 
lenj  it  w.i.^ 


not  against  their  rules,  for  they  had  told  nie  that  the  gate  closed  at 
eleven,  but  they  did  not  tell  me  that  I  should  be  inside  of  it. 

But  I  soon  got  tired  of  operas,  theatres  and  soirees,  and  preferred 
one  hour  passed  at  St.  Mande  to  them  all.  One  evening  I  was  at 
the  opera  with  some  fiiends.  Laferriere  joined  us  after  the  first  act ; 
I  became  so  exhausted  that  I  begged  him  to  take  me  home.  "  ^V^ly, 
child,"  he  replied,  "do  listen  to  the  music."  "Oh,"  said  I,  "I  am 
so  weary,  it  sickens  me  :  I  am  not  made  for  this." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  what  you  are  made  foi  :  nothing  seems  to 
amuse  you.  You  must  break  yourself  of  this  restlessness.  Tell  me, 
were  you  ever  satisfied  to  keep  still  five  minutes  in  your  life  ?  " 

1  begged  him  to  come  with  me,  and  I  forced  him  back  into  the 
saloon  attached  to  the  box.  He  began  to  scold,  and  declared  that 
everybody  in  the  house  would  think  that  we  had  gone  into  the  saloon 
to  talk  sentiment  and  love.  "  Well,"  said  I,  "  leave  me  ;  if  one  of  us 
is  condemned  to  listen  to  the  play,  let  it  be  you." 

He  left  me  at  once  :  I  began  to  weep  and  muse  on  the  past,  and 
I  recalled  a  time  that  I  once  sat  still.  It  was  when  I  used  to  sit  on 
tne  door-sill  of  my  uncle's  cottage,  listening  to  the  cricket  which  sang 
under  the  stone  step ;  and  whenever  that  moral  nausea,  which  a  sur- 
feit of  pleasure  gives,  would  seize  me,  1  would  willingly  give  all  the 
pleasures  in  Paris  if  I  could  have  been  carried  back  to  listen  to  that 
cricket's  song  again. 

How  often,  when  1  have  been  sitting  in  one  of  the  imperial  boxes, 
ensconced  in  satin  cushions,  and  damask  drapery  adorned  with  tinsel 
hangings,  over  which  were  embroidered  the  insignia  of  Royalty,  and 
surrounded  by  hearts  to  which  I  felt  coldly  indifferent,  have  1  been 
seized  by  such  a  spell  of  ennui  that  I  turned  my  eyes  from  the  stage 
and  looked  at  the  third  tier,  to  watch  and  to  envy  some  young  peas- 
ant whom  1  chanced  to  see  there  sitting  beside  his  intended  or  his 
youthful  bride. 

I  ha>  e  often  watched  them  during  the  whole  play.  Even  now  I 
have  only  to  close  my  eyes  and  1  can  s^c  them  still. 

How  naturally  and  at  the  same  instant  they  turn  towards  each  other 
to  read  mutual  joy  and  satisfaction  in  each  other's  eyes.  They  are 
constantly  doing  so,  at  the  same  time  that  they  are  all  attention  to 
the  play.  The  curtain  falls,  the  play  is  over,  everybody  hastens  away, 
but  my  charming  couple  linger.  Every  back  is  turned  towards  them 
(just  what  the  swain  is  waiting  for).  #The  gas  in  the  third  tier  is  siid- 


350 


LE  LAID.  BEAU-MONDE. 


i  i 


denly  extinguished,  yet  I  can  see  the  outUnes  of  their  forms  as  the 
young  peasant  quickly  bows  his  head  close  to  hers.  Siie  starts  back 
affrighted,  but  is  instantly  assured  by  him  that  the  danger  is  over,  and 
they  joyfully  hasten  out  hand  in  hand  to  join  the  rest.  The  young 
rogue  stole  a  kiss  ;  it  was  for  that  he  lay  in  wait.  1  mistrusted  him, 
and  1  waited  to  see  it  out. 

But  how  I  envied  them  when  I  saw  him  take  her  hand  and  they 
tripped  away  gayly  side  by  side.  I  envied  them  their  independence, ' 
and  my  soul  would  sicken  when  it  fell  back  again  once  more  upon 
myself,  and  that  dread  feeling  of  isolation  of  the  heart  would  come 
over  me.  In  such  moments  I  hated  fortune,  titles,  honors,  and  dis- 
tinction, and  I  looked  upon  them  as  the  enemies  of  my  repose ;  for  every 
day  tiiey  seemed  to  separate  me  more  and  more  from  the  one  1  loved. 

One  day  I  opened  my  heart  t<^  Laferriere  and  told  him  that  there 
were  moments  when  1  felt  like  flying  from  Paris,  so  sick  was  I  of 
this  kind  of  life.  He  replied,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ?  I  knew  how 
it  would  be,  I  foresaw  all  this,  but  I  did  not  expect  it  would  come 
so  soon.  1  knew  1  could  place  you  in  a  position  that  the  world 
would  be  at  your  feet,  and  that  the  day  would  come  when  you 
would  loathe  it,  as  you  would  a  nauseous  drink.  I  can  sympa- 
thize with  you  ;  for  it  is  a  penalty  that  I  have  had  to  submit  to, 
ever  since  the  Emperor  gave  me  my  appointment.  But  I  have 
this  to  console  me,  whereas  you  have  not  that  consolation,  I  did 
not  seek  my  position,  it  was  thrust  upon  me ;  whereas  you  made 
every  effort  to  attain  yours.  I  much  preferred  the  solitude  of  Flech- 
6res  to  this  Babylonian  life  at  court.  I  shrank  from  it  j  but,  from 
devotion  to  the  cause  that  my  father  had  made  such  bitter  sacrifices 
in  espousing,  I  accepted  it  as  a  burden,  not  as  a  means  to  happiness. 
I  am  so  disgusted  with  court  life  and  the  flattery  of  sycophants,  ihau 
1  often  envy  my  valet  and  wish  1  could  exchange  positions  witii  him. 
But  you  deserve  to  be  punished ;  for  this  is  only  what  you  sought 
for :  now  that  you  have  attained  it,  you  lind  yourself  miserable.  1 
can  do  nothing  more.  But  I  knew  just  how  it  would  be,  and  1  al- 
ways told  you  so,  that  the  day  would  come  when  you  would  sigh  for 
your  former  quiet  and  unassuming  home,  and  would  care  little  who 
despised  you,  so  long  as  they  would  leave  you  alone." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  that  is  not  so  :  I  have  never  once  sighed  after 
the  little  apartment,  because  some  people  turned  their  backs  on  me 
there  for  living  in  it.     They  thoMght  I  deserved  it  to  be  so  treated." 


l.aferrie 
never  be 
pose  that 
you  are 
sure  they 
thought  y 
I    You 


THE   FALSE   WORLD. 


35t 


^'^'■"'s  as  the 

l^e  starts  back 

pr  is  OVC1-,  and 

The  young 

fstrusted  ]ii,„, 

"d  and  they 
'dependence, 
=e  more  upon 
would  come 
lors,  anc'  (lis- 
ose ;  for  every 
one  I  loved, 
ini  that  there 
ick  was  I  of 
J  knew  how 
would  coine 
at  the  world 
e  when  you 
can  syinpa- 
0  submit  to, 
But  I  have 
lation,  I  did 
s  you  made 
de  of  Flecli- 
>  but,  from 
er  sacritices 
happiness. 
•Giants,  d,at 
s  with  him. 
'ou  sought 
lerable.     1 
i  and  i  al- 
Id  sigh  for 
little  whc 

hed  after 
^s  on  me 
leated." 


Laferrieie's  face  assumed  a  bitter  smile  as  he  replied,  "You  will 
never  be  convinced  of  the  truth  of  anything  1  tell  you.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  the  world  crowds  around  you  now,  because  men  think  that 
you  are  more  deserving  than  you  were  then  ?  My  dear  child,  1  am 
sure  they  have  a  worse  opinion  of  you  now  than  they  had  then.  I 
thought  you  could  read  peojjle ;  but  how  vanity  and  i>ride  do  blind 
us  !  You  will  find  that  they  will  press  your  hand  so  long  as  they  can 
find  something  in  it ;  but  believe  me,  the  moment  you  cease  to  amuse 
them,  or  to  be  of  any  service  to  them,  you  might  be  an  angel,  and  they 
would  not  know  you  if  they  met  you  in  the  street." 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

MY   SOUL   IN   DARKNESS. — THE    COUNTESS   DE  MONTALEMBERT  BRINGS 

BACK    THE    LIGHT. 

I  HAD  not  led  this  life  three  months  when  I  awoke  one  morning  as 
much  an  infidel  as  ever.  It  was  one  of  the  most  dreadful  moments  I 
ever  knew.  I  was  so  distracted  that  I  had  an  impulse  to  run  down 
the  street  and  throw  myself  into  the  Seine, — I  had  lost  my  Faith.  I 
looked  upon  the  Catholics  as  so  many  fiends  incarnate  who  had  suc- 
ceeded in  entrapping  me,  and  I  began  asking  myself;  How  are  you 
going  to  get  out  of  this  ?  how  are  you  going  to  get  out  of  this  ?  "  It 
would  be  contrary  to  my  nature  to  keep  up  the  disguise,  and  make 
believe  that  I  was  a  Christian  when  I  was  not.  I  felt  that  I  was 
fitted  for  any  other  role  in  duplicity  but  that, — and  that  I  would  not 
play.  I  preferred  being  shunned  by  the  whole  world  as  an  infidel,  to 
being  honored,  while  knowing  myself  to  be  a  hypocrite.  I  had  always 
sincerely  hated  hypocrites,  and  to  be  forced  to  be  one  myself,  in 
order  to  keep  up  my  position,  I  felt  was  more  than  the  v-hole  thing 
was  worth.  But  I  was  sad,  very  sad.  What  a  scandal  it  would  make  ! 
and  how  it  would  grieve  my  friends  !  my  godmother  whom  1  so  much 
loved  !  and  when  I  thoijht  of  Madam  Xavier,  I  wept  like  a  child. 
But  what  could  I  do  ?  and,  every  moment  becoming  more  and  more 
distracted,  hardly  knowing  what  I  was  about,  I  sank  down  on  my 
knees,  and  began  to  implore  (iod  to  help  me. 

That  day  I  refused  to  see  any  oncf  locked  myself   ip  in  my  room, 


;i 


352 


A  NEW   DEPARTURE. 


I*     i 


i't    i 


and  raved  like  one  who  had  been  following  an  ignis-fatmis,  until  it 
had  led  him  to  a  precipice,  and  who  had  not  discovered  the  ciicat  un- 
til he  found  himself  dashing  headlong  down.  In  tliis  miserable  state 
I  remained  until  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  i)raying  fervently  to 
God  all  the  while,  to  inspire  me  what  to  do  in  order  to  get  out  of  my 
embarrassment.  Finally  the  thought  struck  me,  that  1  would  say 
nothing  about  it  for  the  present,  I  should  first  study  the  (luestion, 
master  it,  and  would  not  declare  myself  an  infidel  until  1  was  strong 
enough  to  defend  myself;  I  recollected  that  the  Catholics  had  been 
too  much  for  Jean  Jacques  ;  but  then  he  was  only  a  boy,  and  they 
never  succeeded  in  making  such  a  fool  of  him  as  they  did  of  me,  for 
he  knew  better  all  the  time,  whereas  I  was  in  downright  earnest. 

I  then  recalled  how  well  they  had  refuted  everything  that  I  had 
said  against  them.  But  my  resolution  was  taken,  and  I  was  determined 
to  carry  it  through, — this  time  I  should  master  both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion, so  as  not  to  be  taken  by  surprise  at  anything  that  could  be  said 
in  their  favor,  as  I  had  been  at  St.  Mande.  How  many  people  had 
called  me  a  fool !   I  now  felt  that  they  were  the  only  ones  who  knew  me. 

My  maid  came  and  told  me  that  the  carriage  was  waiting.  I  tlien 
remembered  having  ordered  it  for  three  o'clock,  to  go  to  the  Princess 
Sulkowska's.     It  was  her  reception-day. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  the  saloon,  the  Princess  came  to  me,  and  said  : 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  to-day,  for  I  want  you  to  renew  your 
acquaintance  with  the  Countess  de  Montalembert,  who  is  your  neigh- 
bor. She  resides  in  the  Rue  de  Bac,  very  near  the  abbey.  I  have 
just  been  telling  her  of  your  extraordinary  conversion,  and  she  de- 
sires very  much  to  see  you."  »  >>    .    r  > 

The  Countess  could  not  recall  me,  and  had  lost  all  remembrance 
of  our  former  acquaintance.  She  began  to  congratulate  me,  and  to 
say  many  edifying  things,  which  fearfully  embarrassed  me,  as  the 
Princess  Iza  joined  in  the  conversation,  at  a  moment  when  all  my 
doubts  and  the  despair  of  the  morning  came  back  upon  me.  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  or  to  say  ;  but  I  concluded  it  would  be  wise  to 
keep  silent  for  the  present. 

Madam  de  Montalembert  introduced  me  to  her  daughter,  the 
Countess  de  Meaux.  In  a  few  moments  I  was  surrounded  by  half 
a  dozen,  all  congratulating  me,  among  the  rest  Monsignor  Bauer, 
afterwards  chaplain  to  the  Knipress,  whom  1  had  always  disliked. 
While  he  was  running  otf  a  few  silvery  phrases,  I  was  seized  with  an 


almost  irn 
his  rcligio 
latans  wh( 
Whene^ 
with  me  I 
this) :  the 
what  1  w" 
tences  th; 
but  I  had 
face  agai 
tioned  iv 
The  C' 
life  I  was 
so  frank, 
I  remem 
feel  whei 
they  woi 
mind  tc 
In  a  fi 
all  our  1 
told  her 
all  surpi 
sense." 
of  it  tha 
on  the  ( 
for  I  th' 
such  a  I 
Shes 
that  wc 
to,  and 
her  an; 
Said 
will  tel 
in  our 
tial  ali 
1  tc 
was  d 
which 
books 


A  NEW  TEACHER. 


353 


I"',   i 


'stilus,  until  i( 
t'le  cheat  iin. 
miserable  state 
8  fervently  to 
get  out  of  my 
i  would  say 
tlie  question, 
I  was  strong 
ics  had  been 
l^oy,  and  they 
id  of  nie,  for 
earnest. 
S  that  I  had 
ts  determined 
s  of  the  ques- 
:ould  be  said 
y  people  had 
k'ho  knew  inc. 
t'»g.     I  then 
the  Princess 

ne,  and  said  : 
)  renew  ^our 
5  your  noigh- 
-y.  I  have 
and  she  de- 

inembrance 
'lie,  and  to 
nie,  as  the 
l^en  all  my 
me.  I  did 
be  wise  to 

'ghter,  the 
2cl  by  half 
lor  Bauer, 
s  disliked, 
t'd  with  an 


almost  irresistible  desire  to  tell  him  to  hold  his  tongue,  that  I  believed 
his  religion  was  all  a  humbug,  and  that  he  was  one  of  the  chief  char- 
latans who  were  running  it. 

Whenever  my  impatience  reached  its  pitch,  it  had  become  a  habit 
with  me  to  say,  /e  ne  suis  pas  faite  pour  cela  (I  am  not  made  for 
this) :  then  I  would  give  up  and  leave,  no  matter  where  I  was  or 
what  I  was  doing.  It  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  Monsignor's  sen- 
tences that  this  thought  struck  me,  and  I  tried  to  make  my  escape ; 
but  1  had  hardly  advanced  three  steps  before  1  found  myself  face  to 
face  again  with  Madam  de  Montalembert,  who  with  her  hand  mo- 
tioned iiie  to  a  seat  by  her  side. 

The  conversation  took  a  general  turn,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  was  captivated  by  a  woman.  I  was  charmed  with  her,  she  wtis 
so  frank,  so  ingenuous,  so  witty,  so  thoroughly  devoid  of  affectation. 
I  remembered  how  uncomfortable  she  and  her  society  had  made  me 
feel  when  I  visited  her  three  years  before ;  I  was  then  so  afraid  that 
they  would  find  out  how  little  I  knew.  But  now  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  the  other  tack,  and  pretend  not  to  know  anything  at  all. 

In  a  few  moments  it  seemed  as  though  we  had  known  each  other 
all  our  lives.  I  described  to  her  the  kind  of  life  I  was  leading,  and 
told  her  that  I  was  dying  with  ennui.  She  replied  :  "  I  am  not  at 
all  surprised  ;  for  such  a  life  would  kill  any  one  who  had  any  g^  ^d 
sense."  I  told  her  that  I  feared  it  was  because  I  was  entirely  devoid 
of  it  that  everything  bored  me.  She  would  not  admit  that,  but  said, 
on  the  contrary,  she  was  sure  that  niv  head  was  full  of  it.  I  smiled ; 
for  I  thought,  what  would  Laferri^re  say  had  he  heard  her  pay  me 
such  a  compliment. 

She  spoke  of  her  husband's  illness,  and  said  it  was  the  only  thing 
that  would  prevent  her  seeing  me  as  often  as  she  felt  she  would  like 
to,  and  then  she  named  an  hour  and  told  me  that  if  I  would  call  on 
her  any  day  at  that  time  she  would  receive  me. 

Said  she  :  "  You  interest  me  ;  I  want  to  know  you  more.  But  I 
will  tell  you  at  once  a  good  thing  for  you  to  do  :  instruct  yourself 
in  our  religion  ;  that  is  good  food  for  your  mind,  and  the  most  essen- 
tial aliment  too." 

1  told  her  that  I  had  that  very  morning  resolved  to  do  it.  She 
was  delighted  with  my  reply,  and  offered  at  once  to  be  my  teacher  ; 
which  offer  I  readily  accepted.  Said  she:  "You  will  read  only  such 
books  as  1  recommend ; "  to  which  I  agreed. 


■ 


M 


354 


THE  OLD   ANP   THIi    NEW   KECllME. 


When  I  told  her  that  I  had  resolved  that  morning  to  instruct  my, 
self  in  the  Catholic  religion,  I  told  the  truth  ;  for  I  was  determined 
to  study  both  sides,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  learn  one 
side  thoroughly  first  before  I  undertook  the  other.  Now  as  Provi- 
dence had  been  good  enough  to  throw  a  teacher  of  Catholicity  at 
once  in  my  path,  I  accepted  it,  the  same  as  I  would  have  done  had 
a  teacher  of  Infidelity  first  presented  himself. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  p.iuss  as  usual,  thinking  as  1  walked 
along  that  perhaps  the  Catholics  were  right  after  all,  and  that  1  had 
better  kei.p  up  all  my  practices  until  I  was  convinced  of  the  contrary. 
From  the  noment  that  Madam  de  Montalembert  interested  herself 
in  my  religious  education,  we  became  like  sisters. 
-  Laferriere  was  exceedingly  displeased  with  our  intimacy,  for  he 
lound  that  Madam  de  Montalembert  was  filling  my  head  with  anti- 
NcTpoleonic  ideas,  and  that,  as  my  doubts  against  faith  gradually  van- 
ished, so  did  also  my  belief  in  the  divine  right  of  Napoleon  111.,  in 
whici  he  himself  had  taken  great  pains  to  instruct  me. 

Madam  de  Montalembert  presented  me  to  many  ladies  of  rank  in 
the  Faubourg,  who  vvere  mostly  her  own  relatives,  and  when  she  told 
them  what  a  warm  attachment  she  had  for  me,  they  all  received  nie 
as  if  I  were  one  of  her  family.  I  wrote  their  names  in  my  book  of 
addresses.  Laferriere's  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  them  one  day.  I 
noticed  his  countenance  change.  He  let  the  book  fall  from  his  hand, 
sank  back  in  his  chair,  closed  his  eyes,  and  knit  his  brows.  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  seen  any  new  name  there  that  he  objected  to.  Said 
he  :  "  Those  families  to  whom  Madam  de  Montalembert  has  intro- 
duced you,  are  my  relations."  "  Then,"  said  I,  "you  know  them  ?" 
"  No,"  he  sadly  replied,  "  I  only  know  them  by  name.  They  have 
always  adhered  faithfully  to  the  old  regime,  and  consequently  w<? 
havf^  never  met :  the  breach  took  place  between  my  father  and  his 
family  before  I  was  born." 

This  at  once  gave  me  something  to  do  ;  for  I  instantly  resolved 
that  he  should  know  his  relations,  and,  in  less  than  two  months,  I 
succeeded  in  introducing  him  to  several  members  of  his  family. 

One  evening,  after  my  guests  had  left  and  I  was  alone  with  Lafer- 
riere,  he  remarked  :  "  Perhaps  it  was  to  render  me  this  service  that 
Providence  sent  you  to  me.  How  singularly  the  wheel  of  fortune 
turns  !  Just  think  that  yoti,  a  homeless,  friendless  waif,  whom  j.  have 
always  considered  that  Providence  wafted  over  the  sea  for  me  to  pro- 


tect and  ch 
band  and 
known  had 


THE    L.'^D" 

The  Ma 

cousins,  in 

niunity  wh 

distance  c 

is  to  instri 

porlunitiei 

ticiilarly  t 

also  a  dist 

From  t 

Retreat," 

came  fon 

always  fel 

I  was  5 

explanati 

theologir 

and  advii 

your  diffi 

gion  who 

Every 

There  w 

these  R< 

thing  al 

it  was  tl 

It  coi 

by  muti 

and  sin: 

with  an 

dieir  al 


Hi  f 


ANOTHER   SANCTUARY. 


355 


;,*' 


tect  and  cherish,  should  be  the  only  one  who  could  take  me  by  the 
band  and  introduce  me  to  my  family,  whom  I  might  have  never 
known  had  I  never  met  yoii  ! " 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

THE     LADIES     OF      THE     RETREAT. A     HOME     OF     TRUE      CHRISTIAN 

CHARITV. 

The  Marquise  de  Ferri6re  le  Vayer,  who  was  one  of  the  Viscount's 
cousins,  introduced  nie  to  the  Ladies  of  the  Retreat,  a  religious  com- 
munity whose  convent  was  situated  in  the  Rue  de  Regard,  a  short 
distance  only  from  the  abbey.  The  special  aim  of  this  community 
is  to  instruct  ladies  in  the  world  in  their  religion  and  give  them  op- 
portunities of  making  spiritual  retreats.  She  recommended  me  par- 
ticularly to  one  of  the  Religious,  Madam  de  la  Chapelle,  who  was 
also  a  distant  relative  of  Lafcrriere's,  whom  he  had  never  seen. 

From  the  day  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  "  Ladies  of  the 
Retreat,"  their  convent  became  a  second  St.  Mand6  to  me.  I  be- 
came fond  of  their  little  chapel :  I  seemed  to  be  drawn  to  it,  for  I 
always  felt  a  sensible  devotion  before  its  altar. 

I  was  seriously  studying  my  religion,  and  would  frequently  go  for 
explanations  to  the  "  Ladies  of  the  Retreat,"  who  could  teach  like 
theologians.  They  appeared  specially  gifted  for  giving  instructions 
and  advice.  If  the  one  you  addressed  was  not  capable  of  solving 
your  difficulties,  she  would  introduce  you  to  one  of  her  sisters  in  reli- 
gion who  was  better  informed. 

Everything  about  this  convent  breathed  peace  and  heavenly  rest. 
There  was  something  in  the  very  gait  and  manner  and  expression  of 
these  Religious  that  drew  you  to  them,  and  from  them  to  God.  One 
thing  about  them  was  irresistibly  sweet,  which  I  often  remarked  : 
it  was  their  relations  with  each  other. 

It  could  be  easily  seen  by  their  intercourse,  that  they  were  united 
by  mutual  love.  There  was  no  affectation  ;  everything  was  candor 
and  simplicity.  Whenever  they  addressed  each  other,  it  was  always 
with  an  accent  of  the  most  tender  and  sisterly  regard.  I  never  left 
their  abode  without  feeling  what  a  Heaven  in  itself  each  home  might 


ill 


35<5 


THE  PEACE   OF   COD. 


be,  'f  all  families  were  united  and  would  live  together  as  do  the 
"  Ladies  of  the  Retreat."  There  was  no  strife,  no  ambition,  no  envy 
among  them  ;  for  these  things  can  easily  be  detected,  however  well 
they  may  be  disguised,  'i'here  is  a  nervous,  uncjuiet,  oftentimes 
rigitl  and  alwa}s  shrinking,  motion  of  the  eyes  that  cannot  be  con- 
trolled, when  envy,  jealousy,  and  distrust  lurk  iii  the  heart.  With 
the  "  La]>iks  of  the  Retreat"  everythmg  was  peaceful  and  joyful, 
as  only  tliose  homes  can  be  which  are  tilled  with  hearts  united 
by  Christian  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity. 


CHAPTER   LXXI. 

MADAM     XAVIER     BRAVES     THE      .SPANISH     COMMUNE. — A     WOUNDED 
HEART    REFUSES    TO    BE    HEALED. 

When  the  heat  of  the  summer  set  in  I  went  to  Mont  Dore, 
chaperoned  by  some  ladies  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  These 
ladies  were  pious,  cultivated,  and  refined,  and  possessed  every  moral 
quality  that  makes  social  intercourse  something  more  elevating  than 
idle  pastime.  For  a  few  weeks  I  was  happy  and  contented  ;  iny 
health  improved ;  the  i)ast  seemed  entirely  effaced  from  my  mind. 
I  was  happy  in  the  present  and  felt  no  anxiety  about  the  future. 

A  letter  from  my  sister  changed  the  whole  current  of  my  thoughts, 
and  set  me  to  brooding  once  more  over  the  past,  and  dreading  some 
fearful  scandal  in  the  future.  She  had  separated  from  her  husband, 
and  said  that  she  would  begin  a  suit  of  divorce,  if  he  did  not  consent 
to  comply  with  certain  conditions  that  she  exacted  of  hiin.  It  was 
a  long  letter,  every  sentence  of  which  was  in  such  discord  with  my 
present  associations  and  habits,  that  it  brought  before  my  eyes  vivid- 
ly the  degradation  out  of  which  Providence  had  raised  me. 

The  publication  in  the  newsi)apars  of  such  a  trial  would  expose 
my  origin,  and  hurl  me  '"rom  the  proud  social  eminence  which  I  ha'i 
attained.  I  was  crushed  at  the  very  thought  of  the  Princess  Iza  ever 
knowing  anything  about  my  past,  and  the  remainder  of  my  stay  at 
Mont  Dore  was  as  painful  as  the  first  few  weeks  had  been  happy  and 
contented.  I'his  new  and  imexpected  anxiety  wore  so  upon  me,  that 
I  returned  to  Paris  little  benefited  in  health  by  my  sojourn  among 
the  mountains. 


/     soon 
rior  had  U 
Madani  X 
rior  of  Sp^ 
when  Mad 
At  a  tin 
ish  comnn 
^vere  com 
country,  t 
Madam  > 
Madam  X 
the  railing 
The  mi 
visions  tl 
make  bo< 
deserted, 
a  nun  stc 
in  her  ha 
ordered  i 
desecratt 
They  1 
Some  cr 
wait  for 
captain 
bravery 
vent  sh 
carry  o 
agreed 
Xavier. 
Whe 
season 
letter 
that  h 
it  moi 


«'My 


allcl 


!«(( 


THE   HEROIC   NUN. 


357 


?ethcr  as  do  ,1,^ 
hiljition,  no  cny^ 
-•(1,  llo^vcvcl•  ivlII 
l"'^t,  oltciitiincs 
cannot  be  com- 

fit;  licart.     \Vi[|, 
-fful  and  joy^ 

pi   hearts  united 


-A     WOUNDED 

•o   Afont  Dore, 
^riiiain.     These' 
ied  every  moral 
elevating  tliaii 
contented  ;  my 
roni  my  niind. 
'le  fiituro. 
>f  my  thoiiglits, 
dreading  .some 
1  her  husband, 
id  not  consent 

■  him.  It  was 
scord  with  my 
»y  eyes  vivid- 
ne. 

»vould  expose 

■  which  I  had 
t^ess  fza  ever 
•f  my  stay  at 
■n  happy  and 
pon  me,  tliat 
ourn  among 


J.:,  soon  as  I  returned  to  Paris  I  went  to  St.  Mande.  The  Supe- 
rior had  left  to  take  charge  of  one  of  their  houses  at  Kayonne,  and 
Madam  Xavier  had  been  sent  to  a  house  of  the  order  in  the  inte- 
rior of  S[)ain.  I  then  placed  my  child  at  the  Abbaye  aux  Hois ;  for 
when  Madam  Xavier  left,  there  was  nothing  to  draw  me  to  St.  Mande. 

At  a  time  when  Spain  was  in  the  height  of  revolution,  when  Span- 
ish communists  robbed  the  churches  and  invaded  the  convents,  and 
were  committing  every  species  of  sacrilege  in  dititerent  parts  of  the 
country,  they  made  a  raid  one  morning  on  the  very  convent  to  which 
Madam  Xavier  had  been  transferred.  All  the  religious  tied,  except 
Madam  Xavier,  who  flew  to  the  chapel  and  placed  herself  between 
the  railing  of  the  sanctuary  and  the  tabernacle. 

The  miscreants  first  plundered  the  cellars,  and  secured  all  the  pro- 
visions they  could  find  ;  after  which  they  rushed  to  the  chapel  to 
make  booty  of  its  sacred  vessels.  They  supposed  the  convent  was 
deserted,  and  were  surprised  when  they  reached  the  chapel  and  found 
a  nun  standing  before  them,  in  an  attitude  of  defiance  with  a  crucifix 
in  her  hand.  They  instantly  halted,  when  she  cried  out  to  them  and 
ordered  them  to  kneel  down  and  ask  God's  forgiveness  for  daring  to 
desecrate  His  sanctuary. 

They  began  parleying  among  themselves  as  to  what  they  should  do. 
Some  cried  out,  "  Let  us  seize  her ; "  while  others  said,  "  No,  let  us 
wait  for  the  captain;"  and  these  kept  the  others  at  bay  until  the 
captain  arrived.  When  the  captain  came,  he  was  so  struck  by  the 
bravery  and  courage  of  the  nun,  that  he  promised  her  that  their  con- 
vent should  never  be  molested  by  one  of  his  band,  nor  would  they 
carry  otf  any  booty  if  she  would  go  and  breakfast  with  them.  She 
agreed  to  the  stijndation,  and  the  last  I  have  ever  heard  of  Madam 
Xavier,  she  had  breakfasted  with  a  band  of  Spanish  communists. 

When  I  returned  from  Mont  Dore,  I.aferriere  had  finished  his 
season  ainong  the  Alps,  and  was  again  at  Flecheres.  The  following 
letter  from  him  a  few  days  after  my  arrival,  showed  me  too  plainly 
that  his  heart  was  still  with  the  dead,  and  that  I  must  not  expect  of 
it  more  than  it  could  give  me  ; — 

•  '*  Chateau  de  Fl:^cheres,  September  12,  i868. 

"  Mv  Dear  Child,  •  . 

"  Tune  seems  very  long  away  from  you  ;  the  country,  too,  has  lost 
all  charm  for  me.     I  try  in  vain  to  devise  rural  occupations  ;  I  say  to 


m 


^ 


358 


A   LAMENT. 


myself — luhai  is  the  use  ? — and  this  terrible  thought  stops  me  short 
in  all  my  projects.  In  order  to  devote  one's  self  to  agricultural  lal)ois, 
to  employ  one's  time  and  life  in  etifecting  useful  improvements,  it  is 
necessary  to  leave  behind  some  one  who  will  profit  by  them,  and  I 
have  no  longer  any  one. 

"There  are  men,  who,  more  Christian  than  I,  look  upon  the 
fomily  as  only  a  portion  of  humanity  ;  and  who  think  that  when  they 
have  no  children,  they  ought  to  devote  themselves  to  the  whole 
human  race.  I  have  no  such  high  and  philanthropic  sentiments  ;  the 
more  I  love  my  children,  the  more  I  become  indilTerent  to  men.  I 
would  not  do  them  ill,  but  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  do  tliem 
good ;  they  are  not  worth  the  trouble.  You  will  find  me  very 
gloomy  and  humorsome,  but  you  must  pity  rather  than  blame  me : 
my  life  has  not  been  a  very  happy  one,  and  if  fortune  and  honors 
have  fallen  to  my  share,  they  cannot  take  the  place  of  the  atTections 
I  have  lost,  which  were  my  joy  and  my  hope.  I  repeat  unceasingly 
these  lines  of  Victor  Hugo,  so  much  in  harmony  with  my  feelings : 


iiA  bietit 

keep  yours* 

calmness  ai 

i!  In  orde 

you  to  find 

(le  Montale 

geography, 

do  not  live 

"  Accep' 


A  SISTER 


!»i 


"•  Seigneur,  pr6servez-moi,  prdservez  ceux  que  j'aime, 
Freres,  parents,  amis  et  mes  ennemis  menies 

Dans  le  nial  triomphant, 
De  jamais  voir,  Seigneur,  I'ete  sans  fleurs  vermeilles, 
La  cage  sans  oiseaux,  la  ruche  sans  abeilles, 
La  maison  sans  en/ants !'      . 

"  O  Lord,  save  me,  save  those  that  I  love,  brothers,  kindred, 
friends  and  even  my  enemies,  in  the  midst  of  triumphant  evil,  from 
ever  seeing,  O  Lord,  the  summer  without  roses,  the  cage  without  a 
bird,  the  hive  without  bees,  the  /lOuse  without  children. 

"I  submit  to  my  fate,  but  when  thoughts  of  the  past  overwhelm 
me,  I  am  good  for  nothing.  Forgive  me,  my  child,  if  I  say  these  sad 
things  to  you,  you  are  the  only  one  to  whom  I  open  my  heart,  to 
whom  I  show  the  ever-bleeding  wound  which  rends  it.  The  world 
believes  me  hard-hearted  and  unfeeling ;. you  alone  know  how  warm 
and  tender  a  soul  is  hidden  under  so  cold  and  severe  an  exterior.  It 
matters  little  to  me  what  others  think,  provided  you  know  me  and 
acknowledge  that  in  the  midst  of  my  faults  there  are  a  few  good  (jualities. 

"  My  son-in-law  is  elected  to  Paris  ;  he  expects  to  be  ordered  there 
every  day.  1  shall  follow  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  my  daughter 
will  leave  Flecheres  at  the  same  time. 


On  mj 

Baron  de 

Neckar  \ 

When 

ing.    Th^ 

me  in,  oi 

she  told 

pockets 

would  It 

nie  pass 

who  tol 

vhich  V 

could  s 

who  a' 

chance 

desirec 

repUet 

pears 

He 

son  a' 


AN   EARLY   VISIT. 


359 


"A  bientot,  then,  clear  child,  and  while  waiting  my  return,  try  to 
keep  yourself  busy  and  occupied ; — that  is  the  only  way  to  obtain 
calmness  and  tranquillity  of  mind. 

"  In  order  to  combat  your  prevailing  malady,  etinni,  let  me  induce 
you  to  fnid  some  occupation  for  yourself,  instead  of  reading  Madam 
(le  Montalembert's  books,  which  will  only  stupefy  you  ;  study  history, 
geography,  read  the  papers,  interest  yourself  in  what  is  going  on,  and 
do  not  live  outside  of  the  world  and  all  its  aftairs. 

"  Accept  the  assurance  of  my  tender  and  devoted  affection. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  LAFERRlilRE." 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 


\    I'; 


(•; 


A  SISTER   OF  CHARITY   IN  THE   MORNING,    A  WOMAN  OF  THE   WORLD 

IN   THE    AFTERNOON. 

On  my  return  from  Mont  Dore,  I  received  a  letter  from  the 
Baron  de  Toucy,  requesting  me  to  do  him  the  favor  of  calling  at  the 
Neckar  Hospital  to  visit  a  patient. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  hospital  it  was  about  half  past  six  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  portress  treated  me  uncivilly  and  refused  absolutely  to  let 
me  in,  on  account  of  the  earliness  of  the  hour.  But,  as  I  persisted, 
she  told  me  to  pass  through  the  lodge,  and  she  would  search  my 
pockets  and  a  little  satchel  I  had  in  my  hand,  and  then  perhaps  she 
would  let  me  in.  She  made  the  perquisition  and  concluded  to  let 
nie  pass.  I  ran  across  the  yard,  and  was  met  by  a  servant  in  blouse 
who  told  me  that  I  could  not  pass.  At  that  instant  I  saw  a  door  on 
vhich  was  written.  Bureau  dti  directeur,  and  before  the  man  in  blouse 
could  stop  me,  I  was  in  there.  Here  I  found  a  gentleman  writing, 
who  appeared  very  much  surprised  to  see  me.  Before  he  had  a 
chance  to  speak  and  order  me  out,  I  told  him  what  I  came  for,  and 
desired  to  be  conducted  to  bed  No.  lo.  "Why,  M<idemoiselle,  he 
replied,  "no  one  ever  comes  here  at  this  hour."  Said  I  :  "It  ap- 
pears they  do,  for  F  am  here^ 

He  repHed  ;  "  It  is  against  the  rules :  no  one  can  visit  a  sick  per- 
son at  this  time  of  day.     You  must  call  a  few  hours  lacer."     "  I  have 


^^i! 


360 


LESSONS   OF   MISERY. 


not  come  here,"  said  I,  "  to  receive  your  orders  ; "  saying  which  I 
pulled  out  the  Haron's  letter,  and  handed  it  to  him.  After  ho  had 
read  the  letter,  he  ordered  the  servant  to  conduct  me  to  bed  No.  10. 

This  hospital  is  in  charge  of  the  Sisters  of  Chanty.  It  receives 
first-class  poor ;  for  not  every  person  they  pick  up  in  the  street  is 
allowed  to  come  there.  They  only  receive  that  class  which  docs 
not  come  under  the  common  appellation  of  paupers  ;  and  many  of 
its  inmates  belong  to  the  respectable  laboring  people,  whom  penury 
obliges  to  seek  assistance,  when  they  are  unable  to  work. 

This  morning  I  must  have  remained  there  three  or  four  hours, 
conversing  with  the  Sisters,  and  consoling  the  sick.  One  wf  the 
Sisters  conducted  me  to  the  door  and  begged  me  to  call  often.  I  told 
her  of  the  search  that  the  portress  had  subjected  me  to.  The  Sister 
instantly  descended  the  stairs,  went  to  the  director,  and  asked  him 
to  give  me  a  ticket  which  would  admit  me  any  time  I  chose  to 
call. 

From  the  time  I  entered  the  hospital  until  I  reached  home,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  ten  years  had  passed  over  my  head.  A  new  phase 
of  life  had  just  been  opened  to  me,  and  as  I  entered  my  luxuriously 
furnished  apartment,  the  very  sight  of  my  own  wanton  extravagance 
sickened  me. 

That  same  afternoon  I-aferri6re  arrived,  and  I  related  to  him  my 
morning  visit  to  the  hospital,  and  how  wretched  it  made  me  to  see  so 
much  suffering  that  I  was  unable  to  relieve.  I  had  emptied  my  purse 
there  :  it  was  but  as  a  drop  in  the  ocean, 

I  had  seen  mothers  lying  there  with  their  newly  born  babes,  with- 
out any  clothing  to  put  on  them,  excepting  a  few  bandages  and  i)ieces 
of  muslin,  that  the  Sisters  had  with  difficulty  been  able  to  procure  for 
them.  I  happened  to  remark  that  I  wished  I  could  go  there  and  pass 
a  few  hours  every  day.  Laferriere  replied  :  "  I  do  not  see  what  there 
is  to  prevent  you."  I  began  to  enumerate  the  many  things  I  had  to 
take  up  my  time ;  and  when  I  mentioned  the  hours  I  devoted  to  the 
study  of  the  Catholic  religion,  he  caught  that  up  and  said  :  "  The 
best  lesson  that  you  can  take  in  our  religion,  is  to  go  to  the  Hospi- 
tals, where  you  will  see  the  fruits  of  it ;  for  there  is  no  book  that  can 
instruct  you  like  the  daily  examples  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity."  So 
saying,  he  handed  me  a  few  hundred-franc  bills,  to  give  to  the  sick 
poor  for  him. 

General  RolHn  come  in.      He  followed  Laferri^re's  example,  and 


A   LIGHT  TO   MY   CONSCIENCE. 


35i 


saying  wi,|ci,  J 

^fter  ho  had 

I-*  to  bed  No.  10, 

h-      It  receives 

in  the  street  is 

^^^^  which  (Iocs 

and  many  of 
L%  whom  penury 
ork. 

or  four  hours, 
One  tff  the 
"  often.  I  told 
to.  'I'lie  Sister 
and  asked  him 
ne  I   chose  to 

iched  home,  it 
A  new  phase 
my  luxuriously 
n  extravagance 

ited  to  him  my 
!e  me  to  see  so 
Pti«?d  my  puise 

•n  babes,  with- 
ies and  pieces 
to  procure  for 
here  and  pass 
see  what  there 
'""gs  I  had  to 
evoted  to  the 
said:  "The 
o  the  Hospi- 
ook  that  can 
harity."  So 
e  to  the  sick 

xample,  and 


said  that  I  could  count  on  liini  for  a  remittance  for  my  poor  every 
month,  as  he  took  good  care  never  to  be  seen  giving  away  money 
himself,  for  fear  his  doors  would  be  besieged  b)  paupers  and  impostors. 

I'lom  that  day  1  rose  an  hour  earlier,  and  devoted  a  part  of  every 
morning  to  visiting  the  sick  and  the  poor.  1  visited  the  hospital 
three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  it  was  by  the  bedsides  of  its  unfortu- 
nate inmates,  listening  to  th'jir  simple  stories,  and  often  catching  with 
difficulty  their  dying  words,  in  which  were  frecjuently  summed  up  the 
deceptions  of  a  whole  life,  that  I  learned  to  reflect  seriously. 

It  was  there  I  received  my  daily  instructions :  it  was  there  that  my 
mind  received  lights,  to  which  I  could  not  close  my  eyes.  In  the 
histories  of  these  poor  creatures  I  could  find  some  analogy  with  my 
own.  They  had  been  brought  down  to  that  wretched  state  through 
the  faults  of  their  parents,  through  the  injustice,  ingratitude,  and 
cruelty  of  others,  and  frequently  by  their  own  faults.  By  their  bed- 
sides I  would  make  my  own  examination  of  conscience,  and  would  lift 
my  heart  to  God,  and  ask  Him  why  He  had  allowed  me  to  escape 
their  lot ;  for  I  felt  that  I  had  often  been  exposed  to  it,  and  was  much 
more  deserving  of  it  than  they. 

1  never  descended  the  hospital  stairs  without  making  a  firm  re- 
solve, never  to  wilfully  offend  God,  who  had  shown  me  so  much 
mercy,  and  I  never  left  the  sick  there  without  remorse  for  having 
squandered  so  much  money  in  luxuries,  that  only  gave  me  a  moment- 
ary satisfaction,  and  which  might  have  relieved  the  necessities  and 
made  the  happiness  of  many  a  miserable  being.  I  would  then  resolve 
to  convert  my  past  folly  to  some  good  account.  I  passed  my  morn- 
ings like  a  Sister  of  Charity,  and  my  afternoons  like  a  woman  of  the 
world,  intriguing  to  get  influence,  power  and  money,  just  in  order  to 
help  the  poor. 

One  afternoon  a  lady  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  who  had 
only  known  me  in  my  morning  character  as  lady  of  charity,  called 
on  me,  and  was  scandalized  to  find  me  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen 
of  the  deau  monde,  to  whom  I  was  playing  the  agreeable.  As  soon 
as  we  were  alone,  she  was  candid  e^jough  to  tell  me  how  much  I  dis- 
edified  her.  I  threw  open  a  large  pantry,  and  showed  her  the  piles 
of  clothes,  etc.,  stored  in  it  for  distribution  among  the  poor,  telling 
her  that  I  got  them  out  of  just  such  people  as  those  who  had  left  me, 
and  from  charitable  Americans,  like  Mr.  Warden,  head  of  the  French 
house  of  A.  T.  Stewart. 

i6  '  " 


:  \ 


362 


AN  EASTERN   QUESTION. 


As  my  motive  was  good,  this  lady  encouraged  me  to  go  on.  Not 
so  the  Countess  de  Montalenibert,  who  was  still  at  her  chateau.  She 
was  called  about  this  time  unexpectedly  to  Paris  to  pass  a  few  days. 
When  I  told  her  how  I  was  passing  my  time,  without  exaggerating 
at  all  on  my  coquetries,  she  was  too  smart  to  be  so  easily  deceived 
by  tlie  good  results  of  the  sacrifices  I  made  to  Mammon  in  order  to 
be  benevolent,  and  she  slyly  remarked  on  my  manoeuvering :  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  something  like  trying  to  lead  God  and  the 
Devil  in  the  same  harness." 


sii  a 


W 


if 


CHAPTER   LXXIII. 


THE   GIUSTINIS. — MY   VOW. 


To  give  an  account  of  all  that  I  went  through  during  the  months 
that  immediately  followed  my  sojourn  at  St.  Mand6  would  take  too 
much  space.     I  will  here  give  the  history  of  a  single  week. 

In  the  Rue  des  St.  Pfires  lived  a  poor  statuary  named  Caussinus. 
Caussinus  and  his  wife  were  always  speaking  to  me  of  a  poor  family 
named  Giustini,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  Syria,  to  collect  a 
claim  they  had  against  the  French  Government.  They  had  boen 
already  six  or  seven  months  in  Paris.  The  Caussinuses  never  ceased 
to  importune  me  to  help  Giustini  to  collect  his  claim.  I  met  this  man 
one  day  in  the  statuary's  shop.  He  implored  me  for  the  love  of  God 
to  help  him.  Mrs.  Caussinus  had  told  him  about  my  influence  at 
court,  and  it  appears  he  had  been  coming  there  daily  for  weeks  in 
hopes  of  meeting  me.  I  gave  him  a  few  francs  ;  but  his  woe-begone 
face  and  look  of  despair  haunted  me  wherever  I  went. 

The  next  day  I  sent  for  Caussinus,  and  asked  him  to  exi)lain  what 
Giustini's  claim  against  the  government  was.  He  told  me  that  the 
Count  de  Bentivoglio,  who  was  French  Consul  at  Aleppo,  had  been 
authorized  by  the  government  to«appoint  a  consular  agent  at  Aintab. 
(iiustini,  an  Italian,  was  appointed.  He  married  into  one  of  the  best 
families  of  the  East.  His  wife  became  a  Catholic.  Her  conversion 
caused  a  rupture  between  Giustini  and  his  father-in-law's  family. 
Giustini  had  acted  as  consular  agent  for  France  for  eleven  years,  but 
had  never  received  any  salary.     He  had  lately  been  removed,  by 


■iiHl 


I  go  on.  Not 
plateau.  She 
^  few  days, 
I  exaggerating 
fsily  deceived 
[»  in  order  to 
vering :  «  ^ 
Kiod  and  the 


I  the  months 
"Id  take  too 
Jk. 

d  Caussinus. 
•  poor  family 
to  collect  a 
•y  had  been 
lever  ceased 
net  this  man 
love  of  God 
influence  at 
or  weeks  in 
svoe-begone 

'plain  what 
le  tliat  the 
had  been 
at  Aintab. 
^i  the  best 
:on  version 
■'s  family. 
)'ears,  but 
lOved,   by 


A   POLICEMAN   WITH  A   HEART 


363 


order  of  the  Chief  of  the  Consulate  Department  in  France.  He  had 
come  to  Paris  to  collect  eleven  years'  salary. 

The  French  government  denied  his  claim  in  toto.  It  was  said 
that  he  had  never  been  legally  appointed  consular  agent,  and  even 
had  he  been  legally  commissioned  there  was  no  other  emolument  at- 
tached to  that  consulate  than  the  perquisites.  The  government 
also  declared  that  Giusiini  had  never  rendered  any  service  to  it,  and 
had  only  made  use  of  his  position  to  obtain  illegitimate  gains,  bor- 
rowing money  which  he  never  returned,  forcing  the  Cavvas  to  pay  him, 
and,  far  from  remunerating  them,  he  sold  his  influence,  etc.  It  was 
for  these  causes,  and  for  others  still  greater,  that  he  had  been  removed. 

The  Count  Charles  de  Lesseps,  Monsieur  Chatry  de  la  Fosse,  and 
other  influential  men,  who  knew  Ciustini  in  Syria,  had  tried  to  en- 
force his  claim  ;  but  the  only  answer  they  received  from  the  govern- 
ment was  a  list  of  the  charges  that  I  have  mentioned. 

I  did  not  wish  to  engage  in  such  a  hopeless  case,  and  told  Caus- 
sinus never  to  mention  it  again,  as  I  could  do  notiiing  for  them. 

Caussinus  undertook  to  describe  their  misery ;  but  1  would  not 
listen  to  him.  Yet  the  moment  he  left  E  found  it  impossible  to  drive 
the  affair  out  of  my  mind.  That  day  during  dinner  the  sorrowful 
countenance  of  (liustini  haunted  me.  After  dinner  I  called  my  maid 
and  told  her  to  put  a  bottle  of  wine  and  some  food  in  a  basket  for 
the  starving  fiimily. 

It  was  the  last  of  October :  the  evenings  had  begun  to  be  chilly. 
My  maid  threw  a  sliawl  over  my  shoulders,  which  I  objected  to 
wear  ;  but  slie  insisted  that  it  was  cold,  and  that  I  would  need  it  be- 
fore I  got  home.  We  called  at  the  hotel  wliere  they  lived.  Instead 
of  conducting  me  to  them,  the  landlady  began  to  tell  me  how  many 
months  they  had  occupied  her  rooms,  without  paying  her  a  cent. 
She  had  endeavored  by  every  means  to  put  them  out,  but  the  very 
gendanne  who  had  come  to  put  them  into  the  street,  had  been 
seduced  by  Cjiustini,  the  silvery-tongiied  scoundrel,  and  instead  of  put- 
ting them  out,  as  he  had  a  commission  to  do,  he  gave  him  five  francs, 
and  reported  the  case  to  his  captain,  who  begged  her  to  keep  them  a 
little  longer.  She  begged  me,  if  f  had  any  influence  with  them,  to 
induce  them  to  leave.  My  maid  uncovered  the  basket  and  showed 
her  our  mission.  The  woman  frowned,  as  though  it  was  a  charity  ill 
placed.  She  reluctantly  conducted  us  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  pointed 
to  a  room,  and  left  us. 


VM' 


t'l 


lit 


m 


% 


!  \    I 


ii 


If 


il 
\\ 


I  1,1" 

m 


1 1 


^1 1  ■ 


't! 


1 


if 


^;hi 


^it 


11^ 


364 


A   SYRIAN   MOTHER. 


We  knocked  at  the  door,  but  receiving  no  answer,  my  maid 
shouted  to  those  inside  that  we  were  not  the  poHce,  and  begged 
them  to  open  the  door.  At  last  I  put  my  mouth  to  the  keyhole  and 
calling  Giustini  by  name,  I  told  him  that  I  was  the  lady  he  had  met 
in  Caussinus's  shop.  He  immediately  unlocked,  unbolted  and  uii- 
barricaded  the  door  ;  for  he  had  pushed  up  his  trunks,  and  all  the 
furniture  in  the  room  against  it. 

\Vhen  the  door  opened,  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  distinguish  any- 
thing in  the  dark,  except  the  figure  of  a  man.  I  told  him  to  strike 
a  light ;  that  there  was  no  one  there  to  molest  him.  He  feebly  an- 
swered that  he  had  no  light,  not  even  a  match. 

At  these  words  my  maid  seized  hold  of  my  hand  :  she  was  trem- 
bling with  fear.  "Oh  !  madam,"  she  exclaimed,  "let  us  go  :  I  am 
afraid  to  stay  here."  I  too  felt  timid  about  going  into  a  dark  room 
with  a  starving  man,  and  we  both  retreated  into  the  corridor.  The 
man,  who  fully  recognized  me,  followed  us  and  begged  us  to  come  in, 
so  that  he  could  fasten  the  door.  "  O/i,  Dieii  !  no,  thank  you  ! "  we 
both  simultaneously  exclaimed,  and  my  maid  made  a  dash  for  the 
stairs,  and  almost  reached  the  first  flight  before  I  could  stop  her.  I 
gave  her  my  purse,  and  told  her  tj  buy  a  candle  and  some  matches. 

When  she  returned  I  was  already  in  the  room,  and  never  shall  I  for- 
get the  scene  that  burst  upon  me,  when  she  brought  in  the  light. 
Before  me  was  a  woman,  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  beads  in  her 
hands,  saying  her  rosary,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  three  long 
glossy  strands  of  hair  spread  across  her  lap.  By  her  .-ide  lay  a  boy  of 
at  least  twelve  years.  Presently  the  woman  raised  her  eyes,  looked 
at  me  a  moment,  and  smiled  ;  then  fixing  her  gaze  once  more  On  the 
strands  of  hair,  she  continued  her  prayer  as  devoutly  as  though  she 
had  been  alone. 

Her  husband  said  to  me :  "She  smiled  to  thank  you  for  the  light ; 
for  she  always  weeps  when  it  grows  so  dark  that  she  can  no  longer 
see  those  strands  of  hair."     I  asked  him  whose  they  were. 

He  replied  :  "  My  wife  is  an  eastern  lady,  and  it  is  customary  in 
her  country,  when  a  mother  leaves  her  children,  to  take  with  her  a 
strand  of  hair  from  the  head  of  each  ;  and  those  belong  to  our  three 
daughters  whom  we  left  in  Syria,  and  we  fear  we  shall  never  see  them 
again." 

He  was  so  overcome  when  he  spoke  those  last  words,  that  he  sank 
down  on  his  knees,  and  began  to  weep  and  to  implore  God  to  have 


m  i[ 


['  ^"<^'  ^^gged 
.  keyhole  and 
Py  he  had  met 
ped  and  im- 
fs,  and  all  the 

stinguish  any- 
hirii  to  strike 
te  feebly  an- 

Ishe  u-as  treni- 
)"s  go  :  I  am 
a  dark  room 
[rridor.      The 
s  to  come  in, 
P»k  you  !  "  we 
<lash  for  the 
■stop  her.     I 
line  matches, 
i^er  shall  I  for- 
in  the  light. 
3eads   in   her 
1   three   long 
Jay  a  boy  of 
eyes,  looked 
more  on  the 
though  she 

r  the  light ; 
n  no  longer 

istomary  in 
'  with  her  a 
o  our  three 
r  see  them 

at  he  sank 
d  to  haue 


THE   MODEL  OFFICIAL. 


365 


pity  on  them.  The  wife  having  finished  her  prayer,  wound  the  chap- 
let  around  her  wrist,  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  addressed  a  few 
words  in  Arabic  to  her  husband.  Her  husband  then  said  to  me  : 
"  She  has  just  told  me  that  she  knew  that  the  Mother  of  God  would 
not  abandon  us,  for  she  had  been  praying  to  her  the  whole  day 
long." 

1  approached  the  bed  and  asked  her  if  she  was  ill.  Instead  of 
answering  me,  she  looked  towards  her  husband,  to  have  him  interpret 
niy  words,  for  she  only  spoke  her  native  tongue.  He  told  me  that 
slie  was  exhausted  for  want  of  food,  that  she  was  so  cold  that  she 
and  her  child  were  in  bed  to  keep  warm,  for  their  clothing  had  been 
made  for  a  much  more  genial  clime. 

My  maid  had  taken  the  provisions  from  the  basket.  They  satu- 
rated the  bread  with  wine,  and  ate  sparingly  of  it.  The  husband  told 
me  how  often  they  had  suffered  with  hunge..  I  sat  on  the  side  of 
the  bed,  listening  to  his  story.  He  opened  a  trunk  half  full  of 
papers.  These  documents,  he  said,  could  prove  his  innocence  ;  but, 
as  he  had  no  money,  no  lawyer  would  take  an  interest  in  his  case. 
The  government  officials  were  prejudiced  against  him,  he  said,  and 
would  not  even  give  him  an  audience.  He  had  come  thousands  of 
miles,  all  the  way  from  Syria,  and  had  never  been  able  to  speak  to 
any  one  connected  with  the  foreign  department,  except  the  sentry  at 
the  gate  of  the  ministerial  mansion,  or  the  valet  in  the  ante-chamber, 
and  now  that  he  was  known  to  the  sentry,  he  would  not  even  be  per- 
mitted to  pass.  He  had  lost  all  hopes  of  ever  returning  to  Syria, 
and  was  afraid  that  he  and  his  family  would  die  of  starvation. 

I  asked  him  to  show  me  the  list  of  accusations  that  the  govern- 
ment had  sent  him.  He  handed  me  a  paper,  which  bore  the  min- 
isterial seal,  in  which  were  over  thirty  serious  charges  against  him, 
signed  by  Meurand,  who  had  been  chief  of  the  consulate  department 
for  thirty  years. 

Meurand  was  a  man  noted  for  his  accurate  decisions.  If  a  person 
appealed  to  the  Emperor,  he  would  refer  him  to  the  Minister  of 
,  Foreign  Affairs,  and  the  minister  would  be  obliged  to  refer  the  matter 
back  to  Meurand.  Meurand  was  the  real  head  and  laboring  man  of 
his  department :  he  knew  everything  that  concernecf  it,  and  was  a 
man  of  acknowledged  ability,  strict  integrity,  and  unerring  judgment. 

I  looked  over  a  few  of  the  papers,  but  none  of  those  which  he 
handed  me  had  any  bearing  on  the  case. 


366 


A   MUTE   APPEAL. 


n 


After  cross-questioning  Giustini,  I  was  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  a  scoundrel. 

While  we  were  talking,  his  wife,  who  could  not  understand  a  word 
we  said,  had  resumed  her  prayer,  with  the  chaplet  in  her  hand,  while 
her  large  oval  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  strands  of  hair. 

I  saw  her  shiver,  and  the  whole  expression  of  her  face  instantly 
changed  ;  yet  she  still  continued  to  say  her  beads.  Her  husband 
also  noticed  the  tremulous  change  that  passed,  like  a  congealing 
breath,  over  her,  and  he  said  to  me :  "  She  is  cold."  I  instantly 
took  up  my  shawl,  which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  wrapt  it 
around  her.  As  1  did  so,  she  looked  up  into  my  face,  and  gratefully 
smiled. 

As  I  folded  the  shawl  across  her  bosom,  I  came  so  close  to  her 
that  I  touched  her.  She  smiled  again,  and  instantly  I  felt  something 
strike  my  arm.  I  looked  down  to  s^e  what  it  was,  and  placing  my 
hand  upon  her,  1  felt  it  again.  I  looked  into  her  face  inquiringly, 
wondering  what  it  could  be.  She  blushed,  slightly  inclined  her  head 
as  she  spoke  a  few  words  to  her  husband,  who  then  told  me  that  she 
was  enceinte,  and  for  that  reason  she  so  longed  for  home. 

My  whole  soul  was  so  moved  with  compassion,  that  I  began  talk- 
ing to  her,  forgetting  that  she  could  not  understand  me.  But  her 
heart  was  her  interpreter  ;  for  true  sympathy  needs  not  words  to  ex- 
press it.  She  burst  into  tears,  '-.ized  my  hand,  and  held  it  with  a 
steel-like  grasp,  and  as  she  drew  me  to  her  and  gently  kissed  my  fore- 
head, the  beads  of  the  chaplet  were  deeply  embedded  in  the  back  of 
my  hand ;  and  in  that  same  instant  the  little  unborn  leaped  again. 
This  time  it  had  a  magic  touch,  which  thrilled  me  througli  and 
through,  and  it  seemed  as  though  my  very  heart,  instead  of  my  lips, 
spoke,  as  I  exclaimed,  while  1  felt  the  beads  of  the  chaplet  knead- 
ing deeper  and  deeper  into  my  hand  :  "//?  the  name  of  the  Bleeped 
Virgin  I  promise  never  to  abandon  you  until  the  government  sends 
yon  home  /  " 

The  husband  threw  himself  on  his  knees  and  kissed  my  feet :  he 
then  arose,  and  interpreted  to  his  wife  what  1  had  said.  A  death- 
like pallor  overspread  her  countenance  as  she  replied ;  at  her  words 
the  husband  too  turned  pale,  and  began  wringing  his  hands  in  despair. 

I  begged  him  to  speak  and  tell  me  what  she  hod  said.  "Ah  ! "  he 
wildly  exclaimed,  "  she  is  right.  I  forgot  for  an  instant  when  you 
breathed  those  words  of  hope ;  but,  ah  !  she  is  right.     The  govern- 


[e  conclusion 

|stand  a  word 
hand,  while 

J-ce  instantly 
fer  husband 
congealing 
J  instantly 
|and  wrapt  it 
id  gratefully 

close  to  her 
U  something 
placing  my 
inquiringly, 
cd  her  head 
me  that  she 

began  talk- 
-•     But  her 
^ords  to  ex- 
Id  it  with  a 
ed  my  fore- 
he  back  of 
iped  again, 
'■oi'gli   and 
of  my  lips, 
let  knead- 

icnt  sends 

'  feet :  he 
A  death- 
!ier  words 
'  despair, 
^h ! "  he 
'hen  you 
govern- 


AN   IRATE  LANDLADY. 


367 


nient !  the  government !  what  does  the  government  care  for  us  or 
our  miseries  ?  One  might  die  here  with  hunger,  and  it  would  never 
give  us  a  thought.  We  have  been  here  seven  months,  and  the  only 
reply  that  it  has  ever  given  us  is  that  list  of  accusations." 

"  Do  not  be  discouraged,"  said  I.  "  (iive  me  a  {^w  months,  and 
I  will  surely  succeed."  My  words,  instead  of  reviving  his  hopes, 
seemed  to  ring  in  his  ears  like  the  last  knell  of  despair.  He  replied  : 
"That  is  just  what  my  wife  said,  that  it  would  be  mofths,  and  we 
have  only  one  month  more  :  that  gone,  and  the  seasoi^  •nA  be  too  far 
advanced  to  travel  in  Syria.  My  wife  and  child  would  perish  here 
from  hunger  and  cold  before  then."  He  showed  me  their  scanty 
wardrobe,  among  which  was  some  covering  that  they  had  obtained 
from  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  applied  to  many  convents,  and  that  several 
religious  had  called,  but  only  one  had  ascended  the  stairs  and  had 
seen  his  wife ;  the  others  had  been  frightened  away  by  the  woman  in 
the  lodge,  who  was  determined  to  harass  him  in  every  way,  in  order  to 
force  him  to  leave  her  house.  It  was  only  people  who  came  to  dun 
him  and  torment  him  that  the  landlady  would  encourage  to  call  on 
him. 

He  gave  me  the  names  of  some  pron^hient  men  whom  he  knew  in 
Paris,  and  showed  me  letters  from  them.  It  was  these  very  gentle- 
men who  had  encouraged  him  to  come  and  demand  his  pay.  They 
had  formerl  been  his  friends  and  his  guests,  but  they  now  refused  to 
give  him  a  cent,  or  even  to  recognize  him,  since  they  found  him  pen- 
niless and  in  disgrace  with  the  executive.  I  took  their  addresses. 
He  told  me  that  all  these  gentlemen  had  called  on  the  minister  to 
promote  his  claim,  but  had  all  signally  failed,  so  that  there  was  no 
hope  for  them  from  the  government ;  that  his  wife  had  been  con- 
stantly praying  that  God  would  send  them  some  generous  soul,  who 
would  give  them  the  means  to  return  to  Syria. 

Said  I :  '*  You  do  not  imagine  that  anybody  will  give  you  money 
enough  to  take  you  back  to  Syria?  It  would  cost  thousands  and 
thousands  of  francs  to  pay  for  three  persons."  I  saw  that  he  hoped 
and  expected  that  I  would  give  him  the  money.  But  since  I  had 
witnessed  so  mucli  poverty  and  distress,  I  had  learned  too  well  the 
value  of  a  few  thousand  francs,  to  even  think  of  lavishing  such  a  sum 
on  one  family,  when  1  knew  that  the  same  amount  would  relieve  the 
miseries  of  fifty. 


'1  g 


Iki 


i  ; 


fl 


368 


EVENING   MEDITATION. 


He  implored  me  until  I  got  provoked  at  his  assurance.  My  maid 
joined  in  my  displeasure,  and  finally,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  she 
seized  the  basket,  and  said  we  should  hurry  home  or  we  would  be 
locked  out,  as  the  half-past  ten  o'clock  bell  had  just  rung. 

I  told  Giustini  to  throw  all  his  jjapers  into  the  basket ;  which  he 
instantly  did,  all  but  the  list  of  accusations.  Said  I :  "  I  must  have 
that  too  ; "  for  it  was  the  paper  that  I  intended  to  read  first.  He  re- 
luctantly handed  it  to  me,  declaring  that  he  was  innocent  of  every 
one  of  the  charges  made  against  him.  I  took  the  paper  and  put  it  in 
my  bosom.  Turning  to  bid  his  wife  good-night,  I  saw  her  sitting  in 
the  same  position  in  which  I  had  found  her,  saying  her  b^ads,  with 
her  eye  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  locks  of  hair.  I  told  her  husband 
not  to  disturb  her,  and  I  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

We  had  just  time  to  reach  the  abbey  when  the  clock  struck  eleven. 
My  maid  was  furious  at  the  presumption  of  the  man,  but  his  wife  she 
thought  was  a  saint.  She  would  scold  when  she  spoke  of  the  man, 
and  weep  when  she  spoke  of  his  wife'. 

P'or  years  I  had  a  habit  of  sitting  before  the  glass,  just  before  going 
to  bed,  to  make  a  sort  of  meditation  on  what  I  had  jjassed  through 
during  the  day,  and  at  the  same  time  prepare  my  programme  for  the 
morrow. 

In  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois  this  looking-glass  meditation  took  place  in 
my  toilet  room,  out  of  which  was  a  long  narrow  corridor  which  led  to 
my  bedroom. 

My  bedroom  resembled  an  oratory  more  than  a  sleeping-room.  I 
had  arranged  it  in  light-blue  silk  and  gold.  On  a  pedestal  in  front 
of  a  mirror  was  a  beautiful  statuette  of  the  Immaculate  Virgin  and 
an  hour-glass,  opposite  which  hung  a  portrait  of  our  Lord.  The 
window  opened  on  a  small  court-yard  in  the  interior  of  the  abbey, 
near  a  little  chapel,  where  the  children  were  wont  to  meet  for  their 
devotions,  sometimes  early  in  the  morning,  but  oftener  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

One  afternoon  I  was  in  this  room,  deliberating  what  use  I  should 
make  of  it,  intending  to  make  of  it  a  store-room,  when  I  was  surprised 
by  hearing  strains  of  music  sung  by  infant  voices.  I  opened  the  win- 
dow and  found  that  it  was  the  children  in  the  abbey  singing  the 
*'  Ave  Maria."  I  got  on  my  knees  and  joined  them  in  spirit.  We 
were  separated  by  thick  walls,  and  as  the  deadened  tones  reached  me, 
they  had  the  same  effect  as  music  heard  from  a  distance. 


A   BEDROOM   SANCTUARY. 


369 


ce.     My  maid 
ft  gesture,  she 
^e  would  be 
Pg- 

Ut;  which  he 
r  I  must  have 
[first.     Here- 
pcent  of  every 
^nd  put  it  in 
her  sitting  in 
[i"  b^ads,  with 
her  husband 

struck  eleven. 

[it  his  wife  she 

of  the  nian, 

before  going 

ssed  through 

■amine  for  the 

took  place  in 
whicli  led  to 

ing-room.  I 
sstal  in  front 
Virgin  and 
Lord.  'I'he 
f  the  abbey, 
:et  for  their 
Jate  in  the 

se  I  should 

^s  surprised 

2d  the  win- 

i^^gii^g  the 

[^irit.     We  I 

ached  nie, 


The  window  of  this  little  room  looked  out  on  clingy  moss-coveied 
walls.  1  glnnced  upward  :  tlie  sky  that  day,  which  was  blue  and 
serene,  spread  itself  like  a  celestial  canopy  over  their  tops  ;  and  while 
watching  the  motions  of  some  swallows,  that  were  fluttering  around 
the  eaves  over  the  cha[)el,  as  though  they  too  were  drawn  by  the 
music,  I  decided  to  make  it  my  sleeping-room.  I  had  tried  to 
arrange  it  so  as  to  reflect  the  impression  that  the  old  walls,  the  blue 
sky,  the  Ave  Maria,  and  the  swallows  twittering  about  the  eaves,  had 
made  on  my  mind.  I  had  the  ceiling  tinted  a  delicate  blue,  and 
studded  with  stars,  with  a  cornice  of  dark  mazarine  blue  and  gold.  I 
looked  on  this  room  as  a  hallowed  spot,  and  never  entered  except  to 
sleep  or  to  listen  to  the  children  singing,  or  to  pray. 

If  I  chanced  to  hear  a  strain  of  music  from  that  side  of  the  abbey, 
I  would  leave  everything,  company,  all,  no  matter  who  was  with  me, 
to  fly  to  this  little  room  to  hear  the  children  sing  the  vesper  hymns. 
If  I  happened  to  be  alone,  I  would  turn  over  the  hour-glass,  and 
would  oftentimes  pray  and  meditate  there  until  its  sands  had  run 
through  ;  and  never  could  I  pray  anywhere  else  as  well  as  I  could 
pray  there. 

The  last  thing  my  maid  did  every  night  before  leaving  me,  was  to 
light  a  candle  in  this  little  chamber.  As  soon  as  1  had  finished 
making  my  midnight  meditation  before  the  glass,  I  would  put  out  the 
light,  and  then  grope  my  way,  through  the  narrow  corridor,  to  my 
bedroom.  The  moment  I  entered  it,  coming  suddenly  out  of  the 
dark,  and  finding  myself  in  this  subdued  blue  light,  I  had  alwa,  s 
a  feeling  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  God  were  there,  the  Blessed 
Virgin  to  intercede  for  me,  and  (iod  to  answer  her  prayers. 

The  evening  that  I  passed  with  the  Giustinis,  as  soon  as  I  was 
alone,  I  could  only  think  of  the  man,  and  his  daring  to  hope  that  I 
might  give  him  money  enough  to  return  to  Syria.  My  maid,  too,  had 
excited  me  more  against  him  than  I  otherwise  would  have  been  ;  for 
she  had  remarked  all  his  gestures  and  his  insinuations,  many  of  which 
had  escaped  me,  on  account  of  the  close  attention  I  paid  to  his  wife, 
for  whom  alone  I  felt  any  sympathy. 

Just  as  I  was  in  the  act  of  extinguishing  the  light,  I  saw  a  paper 
lying  on  the  floor  :  I  stoojied  in  the  dark,  and  felt  for  it  until  I  found 
it.  I  then  groped  my  way  through  the  narrow  corridor  into  my  bed- 
room.    The  moment  I  entered  it,  I  forgot  all  about  the  paper  I  had 

in  my  hand,  and  instantly  dropped  on  my  knees,  and  offered  up  my 
16* 


370 


FAITH   IN   GOD. 


wonted  ejaculation  :  "  O  Saviour,  may  I  love  thee  more !  and  wilt 
thou  love  me  more  !  May  1  love  Laferriere  less  !  but  make  him  love 
me  more." 

I  continued  to  pray  for  several  minutes.  As  I  was  about  to  put 
out  the  light,  I  recollected  the  paper  I  had  in  my  hand,  whicli  1  at 
once  recognized  as  the  one  containing  the  charges  against  Cliustini. 
I  opened  it  and  read  it  through,  and  when  I  came  to  the  last  words : 
"  It  is  for  these  offences,  and  still  greater,  that  you  have  been  re- 
called," etc.,  I  looked  up  at  the  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
began  talkmg  to  her  as  though  she  were  really  present. 

Said  I  :  "  I  believe  he  is  guilty  of  every  one  of  the  charges,  and  yet 
he  dares  to  imagine  that  1  will  pay  for  his  misdeeds,  and  give  him 
money  enough  to  go  back  to  Syria  !  "  and  I  continued  to  abuse  him 
a.s  hard  as  I  could,  until  I  happened  to  notice  the  red  marks  on  the 
back  of  my  left  hand,  which  his  wife's  chaplet  had  made. 

I  at  once  recollected  my  vow,  and  the  whole  scene  came  vividly 
before  me.  I  was  so  moved  that  I  threw  my  arms  around  the  statue 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  kissed  her  feet,  and  the  tears  gushed  from  my 
eyes,  while  I  repeated  my  vow.  "  Yes,  mother,  I  do  promise  you, 
that  I  will  never  abandon  that  Syrian  mother  and  her  unborn  babe. 
1  will  make  the  government  send  them  home ; "  and  as  1  renewed 
my  vow,  I  felt  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  demanded  it  of  me. 

I  had  scarcely  renewed  it,  when  my  eyes  fell  again  on  the  paper 
which  contained  those  fatal  accusations,  which  seemed  to  instantly 
bury  all  my  hopes  of  success.  But  the  moment  my  eyes  fell  again  on 
the  marks  on  my  hand,  all  my  courage  returned  ;  I  felt  that  the 
Blessed  Virgin  had  written  there,  with  this  sorrowful  mother's  cha[)- 
let,  a  promise  to  assist  me. 

The  thought  filled  me  with  joy.  I  reached  out  my  left  hand  to- 
wards the  statue,  while  in  my  right  I  held  up  the  paper,  and  shook  it 
with  a  triumphant  air,  as  1  spoke  to  it :  "  We  shall  see  who  is  the 
stronger,  the  inflexible,  unerring  Meurand,  old  head  of-  the  consulate 
department,  or  the  Blessed  Virgin  ! " 

I  then  threw  the  paper  on  the  floor,  stamped  on  it  with  my  foot, 
and  continued  talking  to  the  I31essed  Virgin,  as  though  she  were 
actually  present.  1  was  as  happy  as  I  could  be,  for  every  time  I 
looked  at  my  hand,  it  seemed  as  though  I  saw  the  promise  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  written  there.  I  then  turned  lovingly  towards  the 
portrait  of  our  Lord,  and  said  to  Him  :  "  1   know  thou  canst  not 


.■  u 


CHILDREN   IN  THE  ABBEY. 


3;i 


rj-e .'  and  wilt 
['"ake  Jiini  Jovg 

fs  about  to  piit 
I'Kl,  vvhicli  i  at 

painst  (;iu.stii,i. 

pe  last  words  ; 

(have  beoji  rc- 
^^  Virgin  and 

'''^'■ges,  and  yet 
and  give  hi„j 
to  abuse  him 
'"arks  on  the 
e. 

■  came  vividly 
■'"<'  the  statue 
I'shed  from  my 
Pi-omise  you, 
"nborn  babe. 

as  I  renewed 
le. 

O"  the  paper 
^  to  instantly 

^•-'J'  again  on 
felt  that  the 
other's  chap- 

feft  hand  to- 
Liid  shook  it 
-  ^^ho  is  the 
e  consulate 

th  my  foot, 
she  were 
-ry  time  f 
ise  of  the 
^vards  (ho 
=anst  not 


refuse  thy  mother  anything :  I  pray  thee  listen  to  her  when  she  inter- 
cedes for  that  afflicted  mother  and  her  unborn  babe." 

That  night  I  slept  peacefully,  until  I  was  awakened  by  the  children 
in  the  abbey  singing  a  morning  hymn  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  for  it 
was  Saturday.  1  was  so  happy  that  1  repeated  over  again  and  again 
to  myself,  "  How  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  Christian  ?  "  and  as  my  eyes 
chanced  to  fall  on  the  portrait  of  our  Lord,  1  said  :  "  Oh,  I  hope  it 
is  all  true  ;  1  hope  it  is  not  all  an  illusion."  The  tears  started  to  my 
eyes,  at  the  thought  of  this  illusion  vanishing,  like  the  rest  with  which 
my  life  had  been  filled,  and  I  wept  at  the  dread  of  ever  being  thrown 
again  on  myself,  as  I  was  before  I  used  to  invoke  the  names  of  Jesus 
and  Mary. 

While  I  lay  there  weeping,  I  recollected  that  I  had  promised  to 
go  to  the  hospital  that  morning,  to  visit  a  sick  English  girl.  I  in- 
stantly arose,  kissed  the  feet  of  the  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and 
implored  her  not  to  forget  her  promise.  I  looked  at  my  hand,  but 
the  marks  had  disappeared.  I  was  disappointed  in  not  seeing  them, 
but  I  instantly  took  hope  and  said  :  "  They  have  left  my  hand,  mother, 
but  I  feel  that  thou  hast  written  them  in  my  heart.  I  will  not  forget 
my  vow,  neither  will  I  shrink  from  any  obstacle  that  may  come  in 
the  way  of  my  keeping  it." 


CHAPTER   EXXIV. 

CALLED  TO   TASK   BY   COMMON   SENSE. 

As  soon  as  I  reached  the  hospital,  I  heard  that  the  English  girl  in 
whom  1  took  an  interest  had  just  given  premature  birth  to  a  child,  and 
the  doctors  told  me  that  in  about  ten  days  she  would  be  able  to  take 
possession  of  an  attic  room,  I  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  for  her. 

This  young  English-woman  was  about  twenty-six  years  old,  and 
highly  accomplished.  She  spoke  several  languages,  played  the  organ, 
and  could  design.  She  told  me  that  her  husband  had  joined  the 
troojjs  in  Spain,  and  had  been  killed.  She  gave  her  name  as  Eliza 
Amore.  She  had  fallen  crossing  a  street  :  a  carriage  had  run  over 
her  right  hand,  and  had  completely  crushed  it,  and  she  had  been 
brought  to  the  hospital  for  treatment.     I  used  to  bring  her  books, 


372 


MY  cliknt's  character. 


and  would  spend  much  of  the  time  I  passed  at  the  hospital  with  her  ; 
for  she  appeared  to  be  in  every  respect  a  perfect  lady,  and  I  pitied 
her. 

This  morning  I  remained  with  her  only  a  short  time.  I  hastened 
back  to  the  abbey,  went  to  the  chapel,  and  laid  the  Oiustini  case  be- 
fore our  I-ady  of  all  Help,  N^otre  Dame  de  tout  aide.  From  there  I 
made  my  usual  visit  to  the  Pantheon,  and  as  I  crossed  the  Luxem- 
burg Garden  I  lingered  longer  than  usual  round  St.  Clenevidve's 
statue,  which  is  of  colossal  size,  and  is  placed  near  the  road  which 
leads  directly  to  the  Pantheon.  I  fervently  implored  her  to  intercede 
for  me,  and  to  inspire  me  what  to  do.  On  my  way  I  bought  some 
flowers,  and  when  I  reached  the  Pantheon,  I  laid  them  at  the  foot  of 
St.  Genevieve's  altar.  While  invoking  the  saint  to  pray  for  me,  I 
felt  inspired  as  to  the  course  I  ought  to  pursue.  As  soon  as  the  idea 
struck  me,  I  thanked  the  saint,  and  hastened  back  to  the  abbey. 

Wlien  I  reached  home,  1  ordered  the  carriage  and  started  out  to 
see  the  gentlemen  who  Giustini  told  me  had  been  formerly  his  friends 
and  his  guests.  I  took  the  basket  of  papers  with  me  in  the  carriage, 
and  in  order  not  to  lose  any  time,  I  examined  as  many  of  them  as  I 
could  on  the  way.  I  found  every  gentleman  I  called  on  at  home, 
and  they  all  gave  the  same  account  of  Giustini.  That  he  was  a  gen- 
erous-hearted, reckless,  extravagant  fellow,  who  only  cared  for  money 
to  spend  ;  one  of  that  kind  of  men  who  take  more  pleasure  in  giving 
entertainments  and  alms  than  in  paying  their  debts.  That  he  was 
unscrupulous  in  his  dealings,  but  the  very  sum  which  he  might  have 
wrenched  from  some  miserable  being,  who  had  been  so  unfortunate 
as  to  fall  into  his  power,  he  would  give  away  an  hour  afterwards  to 
the  first  one  who  happened  to  call  on  him  in  distress  ;  and  he  was 
deluded  enough  to  believe  that  he  would  always  find  plenty  of  men 
in  the  world  like  himself,  who  would  as  readily  help  him  out  of  his 
troubles  as  he  had  always  helped  others.  But  they  all  spoke  well  of 
his  wife,  called  her  an  angel  of  goodness  and  devotion,  who  was  in- 
capable of  seeing  any  fault  in  her  husband. 

These  gentlemen  had  done  all  they  could  to  influence  the  govern- 
ment in  Giustini' s  favor,  and  had  only  abandoned  him  when  they  saw 
that  his  case  was  entirely  hopeless,  which  was  easy  indeed  to  see 
from  the  first ;  for  even  had  no  charges  been  made  against  him,  Meu- 
rand  declared  that  he  had  never  been  properly  delegated,  for  he  had 
never  received  an  exequatur. 


I  told 

to  send 

niost  piti 

listening 

standing 

of  them 


nie. 


Tl 


ff-'^Iwith   her- 


h  and 


pitied 


J  Jiastciicd 
^iini  case  be- 
J^Voin  thcic  I 

('cnevi^ve's 
road  wJiich 
to  intercede 
L>oiight  so/ne 
^t  the  foot  of 
ay  for  me,  j 
"  as  the  idea 
abbey, 
tar  ted  out  to 

^y  his  friends 

the  carriage, 

^f  them  as  I 

on  at  home, 

e  was  a  gen- 

fJ  for  monev 

re  in  giving 

''hat  he  was 

"light  have 

'"■"fortunate 

erwards  to 

I'hI  he  was 

'ty  of  men 

out  of  his 

ke  well  of 

lo  was  in- 

<^  govern- 
they  saw 

d  to  see 
m,  Men- 
T  he  had 


FAITH   IN   nUREAUCRACY. 


373 


I  told  them  all  that  I  had  a  hope  the  government  would  be  induced 
to  send  him  and  his  to  Syria,  on  account  of  his  family,  who  were  in  a 
most  pitiable  state.  They  smiled  when  I  spoke,  as  though  they  were 
listening  to  some  charitable  enthusiast,  who  was  incapable  of  under- 
standing how  affairs  of  state  were  conducted  in  France.  Only  one 
of  them  spoke  plainly  to  me,  for  the  others  seemed  loath  to  undeceive 
me.  They  admired  my  generous  efforts,  and  preferred  that  some  one 
else  besides  themselves  should  strip  me  of  my  illusions.  But  one  of 
them  was  a  plain,  blunt  man,  who  thought  the  best  kindness  he  could 
do  nie  was  to  tell  me  the  truth.  He  enumerated  a  dozen  infallible 
reasons  why  the  government  would  not  act,  and  to  do  it  out  of  charity 
was  impossible,  as  they  were  foreigners,  and  there  were  so  many  dis- 
abled French  soldiers,  who  were  in  nec(\  of  the  charity  of  the  state. 
When  he  saw  that  his  words  did  not  discourage  me  in  the  least,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  the  more  desperate  he  represented  my  case  to  be, 
the  more  hopeful  I  became,  he  grew  impatient,  and  said  that  I  ought 
to  have  sense  enough  to  abide  by  his  long  experience,  and  not  to  dis- 
credit everything  he  said. 

"  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  who  would  use  his  good  sense  in  such  a  case  ? 
You  have  to  rely  on  something  better  than  that."  "Well,"  he 
responded,  "  I  don't  know  of  anything  better."  "  I  do,"  I  replied 
"  and  that  is  Faith.  I  am  going  to  persevere  through  I'^aith.  I  pray 
to  God  to  assist  me,  sir,  and  I  believe  that  He  will  take  pity  on  this 
poor  family,  and  make  the  governn.ent  send  them  home." 

With  upraised  hands  and  eyes,  he  said  :  "  My  dear  good  lady,  it  is 
no  use  to  pray  to  God  to  grant  you  anything  that  Meurand  has  set 
his  signature  against.     God  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

"What,"  said  I,  "do  you  think  Meurand  is  more  powerful  than 
God  Almighty  ?  "  "  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  in  the  consulate  department, 
I  do  :  they  have  order  there." 

Said  I :  '*  God  has  order  too  ;  and  one  infallible  order  of  His 
divine  providence  is,  that  He  will  never  abandon  those  who  put  their 
trust  in  Him.  Madam  Giustini  relies  on  God  alone  :  she  prays  to 
Him  from  morning  until  night,  and  from  night  till  morning, — do  you 
mean  to  say  that  God  is  going  to  abandon  her  ?  " 

"J/<?;/  Die//,  Madam,"  he  replied,  more  impatiently  than  ever,  "I 
see  it  is  of  no  use  to  try  to  advise  a  woman  ;  for  you  can  never  con- 
vince her  of  anything,  when  she  has  once  made  up  her  mind.  I 
assure  you  that  you  will  never  obtain  anything  from  the  government, 


!    '  1 


374 


THE   WORDS  OF   MY   MASTER. 


■•■:      W 


■  l( 


and  that  you  need  not  expect  that  God  will  interfere,  and  upset  the 
natural  order  of  things,  just  to  oblige  Madam  (liustini." 

'' A'o//s  rerrovs"  said  I,  '■'■nous  vcrrons  (we  shall  see,  we  shall 
see).  I  once  knew  a  good  old  bishop,  who  is  now  dead,  and  ho 
taught  me  that  God  who  created  all  things,  was  the  master  of  all 
things,  and  that  all  natural  order  was  controlled  by  His  divine  will. 
I  believed  the  bishop,  and  I  could  not  adore  the  Supreme  Being,  un- 
less I  believed  He  was  all-povvcrful.  Now  do  you  blame  nie  for 
believing  the  bishop  in  preference  to  you  ?  " 

He  laughed,  and  then  replied  :  "  I  cannot  blame  you  for  that ;  but 
it  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not  teach  you,  at  the  same  time,  to  listen  to 
reason."  "  He  did,"  I  replied,  "  but  only  to  that  reason  which  is 
guided  by  Faith."  "  That  is  right,"  said  he  ;  "  let  Faith  guide  reason, 
but  not  make  reason  her  slave  as  you  are  doing." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  bishop  told  me  too  that  reason  must  be  sub- 
servi'int  to  Faith  as  well  as  guided  by  it."  "  Yes,  my  dear  lady,"  he 
replied,  "  but  did  he  not  tell  you  that  it  required  a  well-balanced 
mind  to  find  the  just  medium,  without  which  reason  and  Faith  would 
both  suffer  an  overthrow  ?  "  "  No,  sir,  he  did  not ;  he  taught  me  that 
Faith  was  adapted  to  all  minds,  no  matter  how  stupid,  and  that  there 
never  could  be  an  overthrow  so  long  as  we  inclined  towards  Faith  ; 
for  it  was  the  hand  of  God  that  held  that  side  of  the  balance,  and  no 
one  was  ever  lost  who  ventured  into  it." 

'*  But  don't  you  suppose  he  meant  that  you  should  understand  that 
God  held  equally  the  other  side?"  "No,  sir,  he  did  not:  on  the 
contrary,  the  bishop  taught  me  that  man,  through  ignorance  and 
pride,  had  wrested  it  out  of  God's  hands,  pretending  that  he  know 
more  about  managing  it  than  God  ;  but  that  God  only  took  care  of 
those  in  it,  who  submitted  to  Faith,  the  rest  were  at  the  mercy  of 
pride.  He  left  to  every  man  his  free  will,  and  the  fact  that  the 
majority  of  mankind  preferred  to  lean  upon  pride  rather  than  to  trust 
in  God,  explained  why  so  many  were  lost." 

Said  he  :  "  I  am  sure  that  this  good  bishop  was  a  very  sensible 
man  ;  but  did  he  not  find  it  difficult  to  convince  you  of  anything?' 
Said  I :  "  He  told  me  that  my  mind  was  twisted,  or  was  turned  u])- 
side  down,  he  could  not  decide  which,  but  he  was  sure  that  it  was 
either  one  or  the  other."  Then  the  old  man  laughed  more  heartily 
than  ever,  while  I  continued  :  "  But  if  he  heard  me  talking  to  you  in 
this  way,  he  would  have  said  that  it  had"  got  straightened  out." 


«You 
will  not 
defect  c 
their  def 

and  ai)l> 
'I'he  f 

monien' 

the  i>l<^ 
©n  the 
more 
So  he 

ing 


:,  and  upset  the 


ABVICE  THROWN   AWAY. 


375 


•,  ,      ...mllam  astonishcl  that  you 
.,Y„t,  talk  well  cno„gli,"  .a,<l  l-e      •  ^,_^^^  .^  ,,^  „„     ,„„ 

„.„  „„t  act  a.  wlHcly  a»  you  s,.a^        a  ^^  ^^.^^  ^^_^^^^,,f 

^fec.  of  yo".-  «"•  ,,  'tlfS  yo       U.  a  capacity  of  con-prchon.  n« 
„„ir  defects,  as  <■«';- ,^;'/y  few  »on,eu  ever  take  an  .nterest  tn^ 
„nl  al.l.reciatn>g  truths,  that  very  ^^  ^_  ,  ^^^^  („,  the 

""thI  old  mau  saw  that  I  -^  »  *    ,„  „ot  atteu,,,.  to  conceal 

„,„„,eut  he  paid  me  such  a  "  "1^"-"';         ,_,„,„,  ,„,.  conversat.ou 
Z  pleasure  it  gave  nre  ;  and  he,  at  o,  ^^^^^^^_  ^^,^^,j  ,„ 

*   tte  object  of  my  visit,  A'"kmg,  !«*  1'  •  f„„„„  his  advtce. 

o  e  than  the  soundest  "-"""S,  to  .nd.=  ^^^^^^  _,, 

So  he  continued  :  "  1  hope  you  «'l  *^;        ^^  ,„e  to  meet  w.th  a 
;  the  government  for  ^.^'''^ood,  so  that  you  will  not  pa^ 

-f::dweirisr:;^.i.w.-^;--f 
r;:r;:rrer^osr;rUify.^ 

.»  J    u  for  if  I  exhaust  the 

^"rNo...  r  replied,  "the  .-.rnment  must    o  ..,  for^^^^^^  ^^^^^  . 

heuevolence  of  my  Wends  to  *  f  ^^m  I  am  equally  interested^ 
,„  nntch  from  other  l""'  l'^'^ '  ^^^  home,  and  I  will  make    he 

^irt;:rriro%-jrxcr.r^ 

-t  l,1::r  fto:TarO-  -  -  messed  Vir,n  will  assts. 
:'  i  my  efforts  to  aid  this  .'-  -^npatience,  as  he  replied  : 

"  This  time  he  vainly  tried  '^^^^^^"uo  not  think  *at  God 
.,  Now  yon  show  your  want  of  ^'^t^' 

i,  going  to  help  you  to  do  ""l-o-  bdme^  ^^^^  government  has 

laid  I :  "There  is  no  '"^^^^'l  f  ,°"^„g  ,o  be  a  Christian,  and 
f,,  ,0  do  it.     If  1  -■"  ^'.^.""'n'ood  flif  trial.     1  do  not  beheve  u- 
1  am  going  to  give  -hg-^  8°;^/^  ,he  word  of  God,  wha.eve 
doing  things  by  halves.     If  the  «  °      possible,  when  we  have  His 
ve  undertake  for  His  glory  be«»»e=  P°J  „  abandon  those 

.      „„,d  to  sustain  ns;,  for  He  ^'^^  ,,„.  „,e  to  that  wou.n 
who  put  their  trust  m  H.m.     He  .^^  ,|,^  „,„,e  of  H^ 

in   answer   to  her   prayers.     I  ""^  "        government  sends  then 
Mother,  never  to  abandon  t^em,  n    .>  tW  i      ^^_^^  ^^_^^,„,,  ,,,.  i 
home  ;  atrd  I  never  .ntend  to,  and,  u 

have  become  a  pagan.' 


I 


1 

m 

f 

(■ . 

376 


I   INVOKE  THE   VISCOUNT'S   AID. 


"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  become  one,  if  your  faith 
as  a  Christian  depends  upon  the  government  sending  the  (Jiustmis 
back  to  Syria."  Said  I  :  "  If  I  succeed,  will  you  give  (liustini  as 
much  as  his  other  friends  will  ?  for  they  have  all  promised  me  that, 
if  I  made  the  government  send  him  home,  they  would  give  him  some- 
thing, so  that  he  would  not  arrive  there  destitute." 

"  Certainly,  certainly  I  will,"  he  jocosely  replied  :  "  they  would 
]-)romise  you  anything,  too  ;  for  they  all  know,  as  v.cll  as  1  do,  that 
if  their  charity  depends  on  that,  you  will  never  be  able  to  makes 
claim  upon  it."  "We  shall  see,"  said  I,  "and  I  will  not  say  «<//«•«, 
but  an  rcToir,  et  a  bientot." 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 


THE   MAN  WHO   KNVlED   HIS   VALET. 


I  THEN  drove  to  the  Tuileries,  and  as  I  entered  I  saw  I.aferri^re's 
carriage  waiting  for  him  at  his  door.  I  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
"  Surely  God  is  with  me  1 "  for  in  a  moment  more  he  might  ha\o 
been  gone.  I  told  him  my  adventure  of  the  preceding  night,  whicli 
deeply  interested  him,  and  he  volunteered  to  drive  over  at  once  to 
the  minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  make  them  take  some  action  in 
the  matter.  I  spurred  him  to  it,  by  telling  him  it  would  be  a  pretty 
thing  for  the  hostile  press  to  get  hold  of,  that  a  man  who  had  been 
acting  ift  consul  for  eleven  years  for  the  empire,  had  been  permitted 
to  die  of  starvation,  within  gunshot  of  the  Tuileries.  '  ' 

I  was  not  frank  with  Laferri^re.  I  merely  told  him  that  the  man 
was  very  distingui  in  appearance,  that  was  all  I  said  about  him  ;  but 
^  I  dwelt  long  on  the  jMety  and  angelic  sweetness  of  his  wife,  and  told 
him  of  the  scene  when  I  had  made  my  vow.  I  also  repeated  to  him 
all  that  the  notable  men  I  had  just  seen  had  said  about  the  lady. 
He  hurried  off  to  the  department.  It  was  agreed  between  us,  when 
we  separated,  that  he  would  come  and  dine  with  me,  and  let  me 
know  the  result. 

As  soon  as  I  got  home,  1  gave  in;^  luctions  that  I  would  receive 
only  my  particular  friends,  until  1  got  this  affair  off  of  my  mind.  I 
locked  myself  up  in  the  library,  and  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  care- 


If  i 


AN   OFFICIAL  STUBBING. 


377 


p,  if  your  faiiii 

J^'-'  <'iii.stini  as 
['•'s^^d  inc  (hat, 

I  "they  would 
['  ""^  ^  ('o,  (liat 
pie  to  make  a 
Inot  say^,//,.;,^ 


w  I.aferri^re's 
'  exclaiming, 
^  'night  iiavo 

"'g'U,  Mil  id, 

ei*  at  once  (o 
'"e  action  in 
J  ')e  a  piedv 
ho  had  l)cen 
"  Peni)itted 

lat  the  man 
t ///>«;  but 
^)  and  told 
fed  to  him 
the  lady. 
'  I's,  when 
d  let  me 

d  'eceive 
mind.  I 
^ay  care- 


fully  examining  every  paper,  but  discovered  nothing  that  could  serve 
me  in  the  least. 

I  was  aroused  from  my  occupation,  by  hearing  LaferriSre  enter  the 
aiitc-chamber,  and  ask  for  me  in  a  most  excited  tone.  I  ran  to  un- 
lock the  door,  for  I  was  dying  with  impatience  to  know  the  result. 
He  pushed  by  me  without  saying  a  word,  pretending  not  to  see  me. 
His  face  was  livid  with  rage.  He  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair, 
and  exclaimed:  "This  is  just  what  every  man  deserves  who  allows 
himself  to  be  governed  by  a  woman  !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him  angry,  and  I  did  not  for 
an  instant  suppose  that  he  could  be  angry  with  me  :  I  approached 
him  as  I  wa"-  wont  to  do,  but  he  motioned  me  from  him  by  a  gesture 
of  his  hand.  That  frightened  me  so  that  I  forgot  all  about  the 
Giustinis.  He  continued  to  scold  me  for  several  minutes,  before  he 
made  the  slightest  exi)lanation.  At  last  he  told  me  what  had  hap- 
pened since  we  paited. 

He  had  called  at  the  minister's,  and  had  seen  Meurand.  That 
worthy  official  had  given  the  dark  side  of  the  Giustini  case,  for  he 
only  si)oke  about  the  husband.  Laferriere,  not  accustomed  to  be  re- 
fused, told  him  that  something  mus/  be  done.  Meurand,  as  little 
accustomed  to  hear  such  a  word  as  Laferriere  was  to  be  denied, 
haughtily  asked  him  to  explain  to  him  the  reason  why  the  consulate 
department  must  do  something  for  a  foreign  family,  which  had  no 
claims  upon  it. 

Laferriere  then  began  relating  to  him  the  miseries  I  had  just  de- 
scribed, when  Meurand  interrupted  him  in  a  most  abrupt  manner, 
and  told  him  that  that  did  not  concern  his  department,  and  referred 
him  to  the  Bureau  of  Public  Charity,  after  which  he  bowed  him  most 
unceremoniously  out  of  the  room. 

Laferriere  loaded  Meurand  with  abuse  for  having  dared  to  treat 
him  so  uncivilly.  He  knew  that,  if  it  had  been  the  minister  himself, 
he  would  have  been  received  like  a  prince ;  for  Laferridre  saw  the 
emperor  every  morning  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  he  had  it  often  in  his 
power  to  crush  a  man  or  to  make  him,  with  a  single  word.  After  I 
found  out  the  cause  of  his  displeasure,  I  felt  indignant  that  he  should 
scold  me,  just  because  Meurand  had  treated  him  in  an  off-hand  way. 
He  finally  wound  up  by  saying,  that  Meurand  had  treated  him  as 
though  he  were  his  valet.  Said  I :  "That  is  just  what  you  wanted  : 
you  are  always  envying  your  valet,  because  you  are  go  bored  with  at- 


11 '  ^ 


1  i 


378 


REGRETS. 


tentions.  Hereafter  perhaps  you  will  be  more  satisfied  with  your  lot, 
and  stop  sighing  to  exchange  places  with  your  servants,  as  JMciirand 
has  just  proved  to  you  that  you  have  no  taste  for  being  treated  like 
one. 

I  expected  a  retort ;  but  he  closed  his  eyes,  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  me,  and  remained  perfectly  silent  for  about  fifteen  minutes.  I 
thought  he  was  angry,  and  1  was  determined  to  be  as  angry  as  he  was ; 
but,  to  my  surprise,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  offered  me  his  hand, 
and  in  one  of  the  gentlest  tones  that  I  had  ever  heard  him  speak  in, 
he  said  to  me  :  "  You  are  right,  your  lesson  is  a  good  one  :  we  ought 
not  to  wish  to  descend  to  positions  that  we  have  not  the  virtues  to 
fill." 

I  would  have  given  anything  then  to  have  recalled  my  words.  I  im- 
plored his  forgiveness.  "  No,  no,"  he  replied,  "  I  must  ask  yours  ;  for  I 
can  never  forgive  myself  for  having  spoken  to  you  in  this  way,  when 
you  came  to  me,  in  the  simplicity  of  your  heart,  to  implore  my  pro- 
tection for  that  poor  woman.  But  your  story  moved  me  so — I  did 
wrong,  and  was  wholly  to  blame.  I  should  have  informed  myself  about 
the  antecedents  of  the  man,  before  I  went  to  the  department ;  for  you 
could  only  see  his  distress.  How  could  I  expect  you  to  have  known 
the  man's  transgressions  ?  Meurand  was  right  after  all.  I  was  too  hasty. 
He  is  independent ;  he  knows  that  he  will  never  be  removed  ;  he  does 
not  fear  or  care  for  anybody  when  he  knows  that  he  does  his  duty. 
I  wish  the  empire  was  made  up  of  such  men  ;  the  government  would 
be  a  little  more  secure.  But  tell  me,  did  I  not  hear  you  say  that 
Monsieur  Chatry  de  la  Fosse  and  others  who  knew  Ciiustini  in  Syria 
spoke  well  of  him  ?"  Said  I :  "  I  said  they  spoke  well  of  his  wife." 
I  began  to  feci  uneasy,  for  I  felt  that  I  was  all  to  blame,  but  1  did  not 
have  the  courage  to  confess  it. 

We  sat  down  to  dine.  Whenever  the  valet  left  the  room,  La- 
ferrifire  would  beg  me  to  forgive  him,  and  expressed  the  greatest  con- 
trition for  having  spoken  to  me  so  rudely.  After  dinner,  I  told  my 
maid  to  take  a  bundle  of  clothes  around  to  the  Giustinis.  La- 
ferri^re  pulled  a  fifty-franc  bill  from  his  vest-pocket,  handed  it  to  her, 
and  she  supposed  for  a  second  that  it  was  for  herself;  she  smiled, 
and  thanked  him  most  graciously,  as  she  took  it  from  his  hand.  But 
when  he  added  :  "  Give  it  to  the  poor  family,"  she  expressed  her 
disappointment  by  giving  me  a  look  of  regret,  and  saying :  C'est 
presque  dommage  done  d'encourager  ce  Jilou,  (it  is  almost  a  pity  to 


thus  encour 

the  room- 

I,aferrier« 

turned  scayl 

iny  confusic 

that  the  ma 

Vou  are  in 

excuses,  ft 

.     dignation  < 

that  he  sta 

him  wliat 

^vovmded, 

he  begged 

to  forget 


That 

and  inst 

merited 

want  of 

give  m< 

by  allej 

never  1 

beggec 

help  i 

in  his 

Th< 

1  star 

hos\)i 

the  li 

peral 

She 

us  I 

mar 


REGRETS   REGRETTED. 


379 


[fJ  with  your  lot, 
Its,  as  Meiirancl 
(ig  treated  like 

I'gh  he  had  „ot 
pi  niiniites.  j 
Fgry  as  he  was; 
P  nie  his  hand,' 
J^'m  speak  in,' 
[one :  we  ought 
]  the  virtues  to 

,  words.     If,„. 
-sk yours;  forf 
this  way,  when 
iplore  my  ,„o. 
me  so— 1  did 
■  '"yself  about 

'nent;  for  you 

P  have  known 

was  too  hasty. 

'ved  ;  he  does 

oes  his  duty. 

nnient  would 

yo"  say  that 

stini  in  Syria 

of  his  wik'." 

•"t  J  did  not 

room,  La- 
reatest  con- 

^  told  my 
tinis.  La- 
d  it  to  her, 
'le  sniilcd, 
'"iiid.  J}„t 
■esscd  her 
ig-'    (TVj-/ 

a  pity  to 


thus  encourage  the  scamn),"  filled  with  vexation,  she  hurried  out  of 

the  room. 

I,aferriere  started  up  and  threw  upon  me  a  furious  glance.  I 
turned  scarlet,  which  made  him  still  more  indignant,  for  he  judged  by 
]iiy  confusion  the  depth  of  my  guilt.  "  What,"  said  he,  "  you  knew 
that  the  man  was  a  rogue,  and  you  have  never  acknowledged  a  word! 
You  are  incorrigible ;  and  I  take  the  liberty  of  withdrawing  all  my 
excuses,  for  I  only  said  to  you  just  what  you  deserved."  His  in- 
dignation only  increased,  when  I  tried  to  excuse  myself,  by  saying 
that  he  started  off  so  quickly  that  he  did  not  give  me  a  chance  to  tell 
him  what  I  thought  of  the  man.  He  told  me  that  he  was  deeply 
wounded,  that  I  shoidd  have  treated  him  with  more  confidence ;  and 
he  begged  of  me  never  to  mention  the  affair  to  him  again  j  he  wanted 
to  forget  it. 


CHAPTER  LXXVr. 

A    HOPEFUL   CLOSE    CF   A    BAD    LIFE. 

That  night  the  moment  I  entered  my  room,  I  recollected  my  vow, 
and  instantly  fell  on  my  knees  and  began  to  weep  ;  for  I  felt  that  I 
merited  every  reproach  which  Laferriere  had  given  me,  and,  by  my 
want  of  sincerity,  I  had  lost  his  powerful  aid.  I  begged  God  to  for- 
give me,  and  I  excused  myself  to  Our  Lord  for  my  want  of  sincerity 
by  alleging  that  I  had  always  been  deceived  by  the  men,  and  as  I  had 
never  been  able  to  succeed  with  them  unless  I  deceived  them  too,  I 
begged  him  not  to  abandon  me,  just  because  I  had  lost  Laferri^re's 
help  in  this  affair,  but  to  forgive  me,  and  to  send  me  some  one  else 
in  his  place. 

The  next  morning  was  Sunday,  and  it  was  hardly  day-break  when 
I  started  to  the  church  to  hear  Mass.  From  the  church  I  went  to  the 
hospital,  where  I  was  met  by  one  of  the  sisters.  As  I  was  entering 
the  large  hall,  she  told  me  that  the  young  Englishwoman  had  puer- 
peral fever,  and  could  live  but  a  few  days.  I  went  to  her  bedside. 
She  knew  that  she  was  going  to  die.  How  that  knowledge  changes 
us  I  Aow  she  spoke  the  truth.  She  told  me  that  she  had  never  been 
married,  but  was  the  victim  of  her  own  waywardness  and  the  cruel 


: 


If: 


38o 


HISTORY   OF  A   LIFE. 


treatment  of  her  lelatives.     She  attributed  all  her  perversity  to  her 
mania  for  novel-reading.     Slie  had  been  addicted  to  it  from  childhood, 
and  had  grown  up  under  its  intUience.     It  had  given  her  a  taste  for 
adventure.     Her  pirents,  who  were  rigid  Protestants,  had  sent  her  to 
a  Protestant  boarding-school  in  Brussels,  to  give  her  greater  facilities 
for  learning  German.     She  had  there  formed  an  intimacy  with  one  of 
the  young  ladies,  to  whose  house  she  went  every  Saturday  night,  to 
remain  until  Monday.     This  young  lady  had  several  brothers,  and 
it  was  one  of  these  brothers  who  had  introduced  her  to  a  young  Brazilian 
named  Amore.     She  eloped  with  this  fellow,  who  abandoned  her  two 
years  afterwards.     She  then  returned  to  her  home  in  England ;  hut 
her  parents  and  her  younger  sisters   never  forgave    her  fault,   and 
were  constantly  reproaching  her  with  it.     One  night,  in  a  fit  of  de- 
spair, she  robbed  her  mother  of  all  her  jewelry,  even  to  the  diamond 
engagement-ring  given  to  her  by  her  father,  and  came  to  Pari,  where 
she  led  an  abandoned  life.     She  was  intoxicated  the  day  she  had  fal- 
len in  the  street,  and  had  her  hand  injured. 

The  sister  handed  me  some  letters  which  belonged  to  the  poor 
victim  of  her  own  folly  and  man's  licentiousness.  The  dying  girl  im- 
plored me  to  write  to  her  parents,  and  tell  them  to  come  to  her.  She 
wanted  to  hear  them  say  that  they  forgave  her,  before  she  died.  She 
would  constantly  exclaim  :  "  O  my  mother  !  I  have  killed  my  mother : 
I  have  broken  her  heart."  The  sister  who  attended  her,  although 
long  accustomed  to  harrowing  scenes,  could  not  restrain  her  tears. 
She  knelt  down  beside  her  and  said  a  prayer  aloud,  which  the  girl  re- 
peated after  her.  That  made  me  weep,  for  it  brought  back  a  similar 
scene  in  my  life.  The  sister  then  began  another  prayer  with  which  I 
was  not  familiar.  The  dying  girl  repeated  it  after  her.  The  sister 
stopped  for  a  moment,  for  she  was  choked  with  tears,  and,  ic^  our  sur- 
prise, the  tjirl  continued,  and  finished  the  prayer  alone. 

The  sister  and  I  looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment,  without  say- 
ing a  word.  As  soon  as  she  could  control  her  feelings,  the  sister 
asked  tiie  girl  if  she  had  ever  been  a  Catholic.  She  shook  her  head, 
and  said  :  "  No  ;  but  my  lover  was  ;  he,  with  whom  I  eloped,  tauglit 
me  that  prayer."  She  then  began  to  reproach  herself  for  not  having 
listened  to  him,  for  he  had  only  abandoned  her  on  account  of  her 
viciousness.  She  had  taken  to  drink,  to  gambling,  and  was  unfaithful 
to  him. 

She  implored  me  to  bury  her,  in  case  her  parents  failed  to  come 


GENERAL  DlX. 


38t 


railed  to  come 


Th.  .ister  had  sent  for  a  pues  ,  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^e-    U 

I  left  her  bedside,  the  last  woras  ^^^^  ,^^y 

r\"have  ntvcy  on  n.y  soul !  forgwe  me  my  sms  , 

„„,ld  can  again  in  *e  ^""X;,  ,,  J' gentleman  waiting  tor  me 

the  Nvhole  day  to  myself.     When  ^ 

^^triae  an  apology  .rhavmgc..^^ 

the  day  ;  but  he  said  that  ^^-^^'',^^^1^,^  never  had  an  opportu- 
o  nd  n  e  run  down  with  visitors    hat  h    ha  ^^^^^^^^^^ 

X^  speak  to  me,  and  he  wanted  to  b  co  ^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^ 

a  lady  >vhom  half  of  the  ^vor  d  ^vas  praismg  ^^  ^^^j 

in       1  told  him  that  he  had  chosen  a  bad  ^  ^.^^         ,. 

T';vas  not  myself  that  morning,  I  was  o  I  ^^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^ 
and  related  to  him  the  --/^^  ^^  a  the  letters  I  had  m 
Hospital.     While  I  was  speaking,  I  recoUe  ^^^^^^^^  ^^^  ^ 

"docket,  belonging  to  the  dymg  ^\J^^^^^^^,^  ,,,  the  other  I 
Jo  piles  of  them,  1  handed  one  to  ^^^  ^^^        ,,  ^ 

lit  myself,  and  wc  both  ^^f "  ^^f "  ^^  ^he  General  was  deeply 
o?er  :wo  or  three,  before  ^^^^^^^  ^  ^  ^,^^  ,,.,e  either  fVom 
moved.     The  letters  read  ^'^^  \       ^^^  remittances  from  t  me 

- '-"  Cwrr^-rti*  Woac.e. ..  he.  a.... 

to  time.       iney  v*v, 

™;rU  one  she  h.a  received  «srtom  her  fat^^^^^ 

J.  to  one  she  had  written  '-"-f  ^f  ,  :Ls„ital.  The  fathe  s 
,  er  accident,  and  giving  her  •«"'--'  „„„,j  ,,  ,  g„od  lesson  to 
answer  to  this  letter  was,  '>^^^^^^  ;„  ,  ;  bttt  he  said  that  he 


V  i  ■■• 


tM' 


"1 


382 


AN   ambassador's   SYMPATHY. 


He  did  write  to  Mr.  Blount ;  but  lie  failed  to  say  anything  about  his 
daughter's  accident,  or  even  that  she  was  in  a  hospital.  She  wrote 
to  Mr.  Blount  with  her  left  hand,  and  sent  the  doorkeeper  of  the  hos- 
pital to  get  the  money.  But  the  teller  refused  to  believe  the  nits- 
senger's  story,  and  paid  no  attention  to  it,  as  he  suspected  it  was  a 
fraud. 

1  learned  all  this  when  it  was  too  late  ;  for  the  girl  had  wished  to 
conceal  from  me  her  history,  and  she  had  feared  to  send  nic  to  Mr, 
Blount's  lest  they  shoidd  tell  me  all  about  her  ;  for  they  had  got  lier 
out  of  several  scrapes,  and  she  was  afraid  that,  if  I  knew  that  she 
was  a  disreputable  woman,  I  would  abandon  her. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  (ieneral  Dix  so  deeply  affected  at  what  I 
had  told  him.  I  was  so  accustomed  to  deal  with  bronzed  hearts 
that  1  could  not  help  saying  to  him :  "Why,  General,  what  a  tender- 
heartetl  man  you  are  !  "  "  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  think  this  is  dreadful. 
It  is  evident  from  these  letters,  that  the  girl  belongs  to  a  cultivated 
and  resj)ec  table  family.  He  continued  to  remark  how  much  suf- 
fering and  misery  there  is  in  the  world,  of  which  those  who  live 
in  their  comfortable  homes  have  no  knowledge  or  conception. 

General  Dix  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  that  I  suspected  to  be 
capable  of  expressing  so  much  real  feeling.  As  he  handed  me  back 
the  letters,  he  remarked  that  he  did  not  wonder  there  were  plenty  of 
good  people  ready  to  defend  me,  if  that  was  the  way  I  passed  my 
time.  As  he  si)oke,  he  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  1  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  moistened,  this  poor  girl's  story  had  so  affected  him. 
I  knew  then  that  he  was  really  in  earnest,  and  not  making  believe, 
that  he  had  felt  every  word  he  expressed  ;  and  instantly  the  thought 
struck  me,  that  I  would  make  use  of  him  to  help  me  out  of  the  CJius- 
tini  affair. 

As  he  rose  to  leave,  I  begged  him  to  remain  a  little  longer,  and 
listen  to  the  misfortunes  of  a  poor  family,  who  resided  only  a  few 
doors  from  the  abbey,  and  in  whom  I  was  deeply  interested.  I  told 
him  all  about  the  woman,  showed  him  some  letters  from  prominent 
men,  which  had  been  addressed  to  her  husband,  and  I  soon  saw  that 
my  second  story  was  affecting  him  as  much  as  the  first.  At  last  I 
asked  him  abruptly  if  his  relations  were  good  with  the  Manjuis  dc 
Moustier,  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs. 

He  replied  that  he  was  on  excellent  terms  with  the  foreign  depart- 
ment.    "Then,"  said  I,  "you  must  give  me  a  letter  to  him,   and  re- 


THE  MINISTER  WON  OVER. 


383 


.ndicnce"  The  General  duicUy  retorted  •. 
,„esthimtogive  '»=  »"  "»Xs':  you  don't  need  a  letter  from  me. 
?.Why,  you  ar.  '"  "A*^"^  *  .t  ,e  of  your  friends  to  v".  you  m  re- 
I  only  know  him  ofhcially,  tei 

lation  with  him."  wounded  that  lie  should  refer  me  to 

,  pretended  to  be  W-'^/"  /^tieriean  lady  in  a  much  better 

,he,n,andtoldhn„that,t,laceaa  ,_^^^,.^„   „f  ^er  com.try 

„„«ion  toberecomiiiend.dby^t  1.^  ^^^^^^^^  „,y  much  more  at- 

"-.  ^'TLTe^fttrol-^n  froi  him  than  he  would  to  one 

tention  to  a  letter  01 

from  any  one  else.  ^^^^^     ently  referred  to  tne 

The  general  said  that  I  ^^^  /^^;;  ^es  of  his  own  family.     He  ex- 
.ouble'lhadhad  toconciuer^h^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ,,,  ,,at 

cased  himself  for  havn.g  hcsj^ted  ,  ^^^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  „,, 

was  his  reason  for  having   '^^^''^''^J^^^^  ^^.t  the  world  did  me  great 
for  both  he  and  Mrs.  1  ix  w-e  ton--e  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^ 

njustice,  and  they  both  felt  ^^e  h>g  es  ^^    ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ,, 

^L  I  •  "  I  will  measure  yours  by  the  stre  ^       ^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^ 

t?.  •    He  laugl^d,  as  -^^iX^t^^:^^.  it  the  foUo.- 
wouldwrvte  a  good  strong  one,  and  tl.. 

ing  day.  , ,  .    r  ,„shed  into  my  bed-room,  and  threw 

The  moment  the  general  left,  I  ru^ed  y^^^^  ^.^^.^^  ^^^  ^^^^ 

n.yself  on  my  knees  before  the  statue  o  t  ^.^  ^^^^.^  ^^^^ 

:  er  :  "  1  know  that  you  nn.  ^^:^,,^  ,u  my  heart.  Hav- 
nrorning,Iamsureofit;"  ^^^''^^^  ^,,^  .nd  told  her  to  come  on 
ing  written  to  the  mother  of  the  dymg  g  ^^^  ^^^  j^^^^,^,,,,  ,,,d 

at  once,  if  she  wished  to  see  her  ahve  ^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^.^ 

::;d  t^at  the  gin  was  f^;j^'j^:x-  '-^^ '-  "^T  "^z 

to  the  amphitheatre.      I  made  arrang  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^^,^, 

:-;:r;;-t:r£^^^te^.o„e  Of  her  f.n.y  Should 

come.  ,  *  ,»  . 


m 


I  ■ 


1 

f 

$» 

II 

i          MM\ 

i  1    Ht 

t 

n     ' 


384 


TLOWERS   AND   BRKAD. 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

CHURCH     MICE — HOW    THEY     NIBBLE    AT    THEIR     NEIGHBORS'    CHAR- 
ACTERS — IS     THERE     ANY     HOPE     FOR    THEM? 

Monday  morning  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  buy  some  flowers  to 
place  on  St.  Genevieve's  altar.  In  the  vestibule  of  the  Pantheon  I 
met  a  lady  acquaintance  who  devoted  nearly  all  her  time  to  good 
works.  I  told  her  that  I  had  come  to  implore  the  Blessed  Virgin  and 
St.  Genevidve  to  intercede  in  favor  of  a  destitute  family.  While  I  was 
speaking  she  was  looking  at  the  tlowers,  and  at  last  said  to  me  :  "  Did  you 
just  buy  them  ?  "  "Yes,"  I  answered,  "  as  an  offering  to  St.  Genevieve, 
who  is  so  good  to  me ;  she  obtains  for  me  whatever  I  ask."  She  con- 
tinued :  "  Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  more  pleasing  to  God,  to  give 
the  money  that  you  paid  for  those  flowers,  to  the  poor  to  buy  bread?" 

I  was  confounded  for  a  moment  at  such  an  unexpected  rebuke, 
and  felt  that  I  had  done  wrong.  The  lady  kept  on  talking  and  ser- 
monizing to  me.  While  she  was  speaking  instead  of  listening  to  what 
she  said,  I  fell  to  thinking  how  I  had  fallen  into  such  a  foolish  habit. 
1  was  so  blind  to  my  own  defects,  and  so  puffed  up  with  self-conceit, 
that  whenever  I  committed  a  fault  I  always  sought  to  excuse  myself 
by  throwing  the  blame  either  on  God  himself  or  on  some  one  else. 
I  soon  recollected  that  it  was  from  Mme.  Xavier  that  I  had  got  my 
devotion  of  making  sacrifices  to  decorate  the  altars  of  our  Lord.  But 
I  loved  Madame  Xavier  too  much,  to  be  easily  persuaded  that  she 
could  ever  have  taught  me  to  do  wrong,  and  I  was  determined  to  de- 
fend her. 

After  my  friend  had  finished,  I  said  to  her  :  "  Have  you  not  heard 
it  said,  that  the  Lord  rewards  you  a  hundredfold  for  everything  you 
give  him?"  She  readily  nodded  an  assent.  "Well,"  1  replied,  "I 
have  a  desperate  case  on  hand.  Ten  francs  is  what  I  paid  for  these 
flowers,  and  it  is  not  a  fraction,  compared  to  the  sum  I  am  obliged  to 
have,  in  order  to  succeed.  I  am  doing  all  I  can  to  induce  God  to 
help  me,  and  every  flower  1  buy  for  His  altars  I  charge  to  His  ac- 
count, and  beg  Him  to  pay  it,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  this  poor  family 
whom  I  am  trying  to  serve." 

"Indeed,"   replied   the   woman,    "you   have   more  faith   than  I. 


.'Well,"  : 
swered. 

dogs'.  " 
we?    It 
gion   at 


iHH'l 


A   LECTURE   ON    DEVOTEES. 


385 


lore  faith   than  I. 


i.itMt?"  "Certainly,"  *c  an- 
„^,^„ .,  I  a„werecl,  "  it  i.  a  y.rtue,  n  «  .0  ^^   _  ^.  ^^^^^         ,, 

T::f  YOU    Lvt  .u,n-e  tl>at  I  am  6-'  ^  "/^Vl  know  about  rcli- 

a  vrecious  gift ,   1>^»    >  ^  ^,,,  to  our  Loid  1        ^o,    ^^ 

.aVhat "  I  exclaimed,     ottcrmb  v^tor  every  week.  ^J'^' 

'1  woimn  ;   "  but  changing  your  f'^^'^         '^^,,,  Ue  refuses  to 
:^I^^  L  melns  once  a  month  perh^.     e    J^^^  ^^^  ^,^  ^ 

,       ,ne "      "1  direct  myself,  I  contcs      j  .  ,,  ^  ^^^^ 

1-1  not  believe  her,  .  ,   ,  .^.^j.  on  my  table,     ii 

"' m  n  1  60t  hon-e  .  found  Geneva.  D,    .  ett  ^^^^^_^  ^ 

,  .,,endi.l  one.       1  had  ,t« M  ™    <=     .^  .^^y,,^  „f  ^^'"tcene';^ 

Ho  was  kind  to  me,  and  "-B"""  j       u,  „,ake  use  of  Geneial 

,"     1  was  nervous,  because  I  d,d  not  d  ^^^^^  ^^^„ 

"t.slt;r.«itboutaski,,g  his^---;,,:,,„,e  of  the  Mar.urs 

a  bold  thing  for  me  to  go  <«  ™*^  '      ^„Udge.      I   f  *«'' '°°i 

t  bl^trurSnf  :.-.  atV  ^von.  remirrd  Mm  of  ot,r  .uarre. 

"'ftr^a^^o  relate  to  him  ^eco^er.^---^^ 
.tat  morning  between  *e  P-^.'^^^,  ^^^  /,i„,a  if  yon  get  one  o 
„e  before  I  finished,  and   ard  ^     „  ^^^^        T'"'  '.S 

those  wonren  against  you  >VI,yr  „^^^„  i,erepled, 

Tall  their  money  and  trme  to  the  p        The  majority  of  them 
C  :;U  women  know  not  ho.v  to  fo,-  -    J^^  J^^  „„,  .„  , 
„e  so  puffed  Ul>  «.th  their  g°«  J"      '  j^^;  „,ey  are  honormg  God 

-"  -'  ';:::,"tdi "  r:;::  ^t:  of  yo..;— ro-r 

r S  ^otees  of  -  :;a^;- ,rS::  gW  of  their 

si:;r:;ewC£;.-:-tf:o:.^ 

17 


Iki' 


11 


li 


.')  i'  1 


386 


A   MINISTER   ALWAYS    "OUT. 


well  have  so  many  harpies  let  loose  upon  you ;  tlicy  will  tear  yoii 
to  pieces,  and  will  at  once  ostracize  you. 

"  How  you  frighten  me  !"  1  exclaimed.  "Why,  they  are  all  so 
pious  and  charitable  !  "  He  interrupted  me  again  ;  "Not  a  bit  of  it; 
they  are  jiious  and  benevolent,  but  they  have  not  one  particle  of 
charity.  You  will  find  it  out  if  you  happen  once  to  incur  their  cen- 
sure. They  are  as  intolerant  as  so  many  mongrel  tyrants,  and  parti- 
cularly towards  their  own  sex,  if  they  happen  to  be  younger  and  more 
prepossessing  than  themselves."  I  got  a  little  footstool,  and  sat 
down  on  it  close  to  him.  Said  he  :  "  I  know,  r/iere  enfant,  that  you 
have  got  some  favor  to  ask  of  me.  Wliy  are  you  afraid  to  speak  ? 
All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  be  frank  and  ingenuous,  and  never  conceal  any- 
thing from  me.  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  that  poor 
family !  And  there  is  only  one  month  more." 

He  frowned,  but  I  continued :  "  What  I  wish  is  your  permission 
to  advocate  their  cause  myself  before  the  government."  "  My  good- 
ness ! "  he  replied,  "  if  that  is  all  you  want,  I  grant  you  it  with  all  my 
heart ;  but  if  you  appeal  to  the  emperor  he  will  refer  you  to  the  min- 
ister, who  is  never  at  home,  and,  if  you  succeed  in  passing  the  ante- 
chamber of  the  ministerial  mansion,  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  pre- 
sence of  His  Impertinence  Monsieur  Meurand.  I  ought  to  encourage 
you  to  try  it,  out  of  revenge  for  the  scrape  you  got  me  into.  After  you 
have  had  one  short  interview  with  Meurand,  you  will  be  willing,  1 
think,  to  drop  the  Syrian  scamp,  and  consign  him  and  his  family  to 
the  care  of  Divine  Providence."  Said  I :  "  I  feel  that  Providence  led 
me  to  their  door,  and  calls  upon  me  to  protect  them,  and  all  I  ask  of 
you  is  to  give  me  full  liberty  to  act."  "  My  gracious  child,  do  what- 
ever you  can  :  don't  think,  because  1  happened  to  speak  roughly  to 
you,  that  I  am  suddenly  transformed  into  a  monster."  "  But,"  said 
I,  "  I  shall  not  go  near  Meurand.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  that.  I 
shall  go  directly  to  the  minister."  "  Why,"  he  replied,  '•'■  c'estle  min- 
istre  introuvable  (he  is  the  minister  that  can  never  be  found),  that  is 
his  cognomen  all  over  France.  He  is  always  out  to  everybody.  He 
has  never  done  an  hour's  work  since  he  has  been  in  office.  A  gen- 
tleman told  me  that  he  was  closeted  with  him  one  morning,  in  regard 
to  a  personal  matter;  that  they  conversed  in  the  minister's  private 
office.  This  gentleman  wished  to  make  a  note  of  their  agreement, 
when,  lo  and  behold,  there  was  not  an  inkstand  or  a  pen  to  be 
found!"  '  '•       =    •' 


THE  MINISTER'S  MERITS. 


387 


„ Heve*e,e.s,'.  .aid  I,  "  1  *'"^,  .^t'.f  "  Well,  we,.."  he  ex- 
\fr.  iniU  out.  General  iJix  s  leuc  .        ^     ^,  -len  a 

claimed,      >  ^^  ^^  ^  thing,  ''"Y^"  «     ^„,„„  and  asks  l.er- 

;:;:«":  put  >.  in.o  exe-ion,  *a-     ;«.  ^o  ^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^ 
^      ■  „"     It  was  easy  enough  to  see  uia  i^^d  not  seen  huu 

-  - -f^'^'  J^rS^'/nd't  .tdr  .he  *.e.h— 

°'  fan 'ated  .0  Wm  the  «=""  '  ^^  fGeneval  the  woman's  side  o 
,eVema*ed:  "^^^^^^^^l,  ...oiiknowyou  are  a.way 
,1,,  story,  as  you  did  me.        "''>  discreet  when  I  spoKe  10 

told  n«  me  ta  talking  too  nuich :  so  I  was  d  ^^^^^  ^    ^^^  .^      ^ 

scoicuub  "'  ,.  AU"    he  exclauneu,      w^  F  „„r1  tmk  the 

tdtt  r^at  ^    ai    n— e^  —  ^^^^^    ^ to  0. 
minister  to  send  this  family  bac^^  t^^^y  .^^^^  ^^  „„,,  daim  on  the 

^rSd^tafer::  t;;  nave  upon  ^J™",;;,  .,„e  was  not  theshghtest 
^:;erhavinga^oo,dlau^^^^^^^^^^^ 

nomi.  tted  him,  j^^t  b^'=a'"= ''' ,'^!^"",fhe  could,  but  that  Moustier 
deshed  to  conciliate   ««»  as  much  as  h  ^^  __^^  ^.^  t,,, 

•    ,  himself;  and  he  be^an  rcia     b  oc  it  eives  me 

Uked  to  enjoy  himseit  ^^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^f  ^^  this,  as     g 

Thought  I  to  myself :  1  am  g  ^ 

an  Wea  how  to  manage  him.  ^  ^^^^_but  I  told  hun 

'  Laferriere  wished  me  to  -"^  f   /^^^JJi  pointed  to  a  file  of  papers 
that  I  had  not  my  case  prepared  yet,   and    P  ^^^^^  ^^^^^  ,, 

hatlwas  going  to  examine  before  ,  co_^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^emn 
adopt,  in  order  to  succeed.  Ji  ,  ^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^  ""^'^rchlr- 
Yourself  to  wade  through  all  those  ^  ^^.^^  u  this  is  rea    char 

Ihich  I  had  ah-eady  ^-^;f ,,  J- ^,,  ,,  ^  fished  to  employ  the 
itv"     I  had  refused  to  go 

evening  examining  the  papers.  .  .  ^     The  next  morning,  I 

Tworked  Monday  evening  »"»'  »f  ^  a  spirit  of  independence 
--^-''^  '"'.,;'::  r/eXr  I  bought  a  heautlfu,  bouquet, 
and  opposition,  than  trom 


:\ 


388 


MORE   FLOWERS   OF   PIETY. 


hoping  to  meet  my  lady  friend,  and  show  her  that  I  felt  perfectly  in- 
dependent  of  her,  and  was  going  to  do  as  I  pleased,  and  was  not  going 
to  be  ruled  by  a  jiriest,  and  much  less  by  a  woman. 

I  reached  the  I'antheon  without  seeing  her  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  got 
close  to  the  altar,  what  did  1  behold  ?  A  beautifid  boucjuet  of  fresh 
ilowers,  nuich  handsomer  than  those  I  held  in  my  hand.  'I'he  whole 
sanctuary  was  tilled  with  their  fragranc  ;.  Instead  of  being  rejoiced 
to  see  such  a  beautiful  offering,  which  graced  the  altar  and  perfumed 
the  air,  the  sight  made  me  sad ;  for  I  felt  that  I  had  a  rival,  and  1  was 
ready  to  weep. 

When  I  rose  from  my  knees,  and  was  ready  to  go,  I  saw  the  lady  I 
had  hoped  to  meet  on  my  way,  and  I  instantly  suspected  that  it  was 
she  who  had  bought  the  flowers  ;  which  suspicion,  as  it  crossed  my 
mind,  pleased  and  provoked  me  at  the  same  timv\ 

She  rose  and  came  towards  me,  as  though  she  had  been  waiting  to 
speak  to  me.  I  asked  her,  at  once,  if  she  had  not  placed  the  flowers 
there.  "  Yes,"  she  replied,  as  we  descended  the  i;teps  of  the  Pan- 
theon ;  "  for  you  gave  me  a  light,  and  1  have  been  meditating  on  it 
ever  since.  VVe  rely  too  much  upon  ourselves,  and  upon  our  own 
efforts  ;  and  I  believed  we  would  be  able  to  do  much  more  good  if 
we  depended  less  upon  oursOlves  and  more  upon  God.  I  was  so  de- 
lighted that  I  embraced  her  right  in  the  street. 

During  our  conversation,  she  spoke  in  such  a  holy  manner  of  the 
necessity  of  suffering,  the  goodness;  of  God,  and  the  consolation 
derived  from  frequenting  the  sacraments,  that  I  was  edified  and 
charmed  with  her,  while  1  was  angry  with  Laferri^re  for  trying  to 
prejudice  me  against  that  class  of  women.        i   •  \.        ,   ► 

That  afternoon  I  repeated  to  l^aferriere  what  the  lady  had  said, 
and  told  him  that  he  was  mistaken  this  time,  for  this  lady  was  a  saint ; 
that  she  not  only  forgave  me  for  not  agreeing  with  her,  but  actually 
followed  my  example.     In  fact  she  had  advised  me  like  the  bishop. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  she  must  be  one  of  the  rare  exceptions  in  that 
class.  I  have  heard  that  there  were  exceptions,  but  I  never  had 
the  good  luck  to  meet  with  one  of  them  yet.  The  most  disagree- 
able, uncharitable,  and  gossiping  women  I  have  ever  known  are 
those  very  ladies  in  the  Faubourg,  who  devote  their  time  and  fortune 
to  good  works.  You  will  do  well  to  be  on  your  guard,  and  not 
judge  them  all  by  this  good  woman.  Take  my  advice  and  do  not 
permit  them  to  become  so  familiar  as  to  let  them  think  that  they 


THE  HUMILITY  OF  CllAKlTY. 


389 


Tlii;,    inji'" 

'    .art  of  .heir  .-'-7;;^;  '„      Vus.heyUvc,  .0  they  *c 
women  do  not  know  how   o  '"  J'        ,.,,„ee.     The  reason  .s,  that 
for  no  confessor  ever  "^■^^'f'^"'""        few  vric''"  have  the  con  - 

f  the  sufferings  of  mankind  ;  it  is  oy  i  ^  ^^^^^^  ^f 

-r;.-  he  re,.a,  ..  I  ..;  not a« *.  .  ..do n— a P^; 
fession^f  being  perfect  an. ....^^^-^^^^^^ 

t  as  a  monstrons  al«"-;;«  «  ^f  ^^^  prefer  to  be  condensed 

false  devotee-iVre*'-  •'  R«'"'  "°  '  , ,  ,„(  rnin  hm. ;  a  gambler, 
ti?i  marry  a  covetous  woman,  'hej™"'  „j„,„  tetrnct  hnn  ;  a 
t  might    nrichhln,-,  a  W-s.ockm  •  *e  n^»^^^^^,^  ^^^^.^^  „ 

t^tde  she  would  not  disgrace  ^^"^'.X^^l..^  Mm  ;  a  woman  of 
'pllien'ce ;  a  cocnette,  she  nnght  w,*  t  J^  ^_^^^  ^  ^^^^^^  ,  wha. 
gallantry,  she  mtght  go  so  Car  as  to 


\  ;< 


390 


A  LAY  PREACHER  AND  CONFESSOR. 


m  \ 


could  he  expect  of  a  woman,  who  wishes  to  deceive  God,  and  who 
only  deceives  herself?" 

Said  I :  "  Under  which  category  of  women  do  you  place  ;«^?" 

He  replied  :  "  You  have  the  imperfections  of  the  whole  eight ;  hut 
what  redeems  you  is,  that  you  never  try  to  conceal  them."  "  What ! " 
I  exclaimed,  "how  dare  you  tell  me  that  I  have  the  imperfections  of 
a  false  devotee  ?  "  "  Why,  my  child,"  he  replied,  "  you  have  pride 
and  self-conceit  enough  in  you  to  danm  two  of  them." 

This  repartee,  instead  of  making  me  laugh,  as  I  was  wont,  struck  nie 
to  the  heart.  I  turned  pale.  He  noticed  the  change,  and  said  :  "  What 
is  the  matter  ?  I  only  said  it  for  fun."  "  No,"  I  replied,  "  you  did  not : 
for  I  believe  that  you  spoke  the  truth,  and  i)erhaps  God  may  refuse  to 
listen  to  my  prayers,  and  I  may  never  be  able  to  get  tliat  family  back 
to  Syria.  But  I  am  really  in  earnest  when  I  pray  to  God."  "  Of  course 
you  are,"  he  replied;  "but  if  I  talk  to  you  this  way,  it  is  because  I 
am  afraid  you  may  be  temj^ted  to  fall  into  the  extreme  I  deprecate." 

He  tried  to  take  back  what  he  said  ;  but  my  conscience  told  me 
that  he  had  sjioken  the  truth  ;  for  in  all  my  good  works,  1  had  always 
felt  that  my  merit,  before  God  a'  !  man,  ought  to  increase  in  propor- 
tion as  I  multiplied  them  ;  and  tii.s  I  acknowledged  to  him. 

Said  he  :  "  Do  you  not  suppose  tiiat  I  take  interest  enough  in  you, 
to  be  able  to  detect  everything  that  concerns  you  ?  If  I  have  exag- 
gerated in  speaking  of  the  defects  of  these  good  women,  it  was  only 
to  put  you  on  your  guard,  that  you  might  avoid  the  faults  of  the  worst 
of  them  ;  for  I  know,  as  well  as  you  do,  that  there  are  among  them 
a  great  many  holy  souls.  But  it  requires  a  solid  and  long-tried  virtue, 
to  resist  being  puffed  up  with  our  own  self-sufficiency,  when  we  see 
to  what  an  extent  the  happiness  and  miseries  of  others  lie  in  our 
hands.  I  know  it  by  examining  my  own  conscience,  and  if  I  have 
set  you  to  examining  yours  to-day,  you  rendered  me  the  same  service 
a  few  days  ago,  when  I  came  to  this  conclusion  that  it  was  better  for 
me  not  to  long  to  be  a  servant  until  I  had  the  virtues  of  one," 
,  He  took  my  hand,  and,  after  a  pause,  continued  :  "  My  dear  child, 
I  do  not  say  this  to  wound  you  ;  but  I  have  observed,  with  regret, 
the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  your  character  since  your  conver- 
sion." "What,"  1  replied,  "don't  you  want  me  to  be  good?  why  are 
you  moralizing  at  me  all  the  time  unless  you  want  me  to  practise  reli- 
gion, as  well  as  listen  to  you?" — I  suspected  that  he  wanted  me  to 
give  less  of  my  time  and  sympathies  to  the  poor. 


^°f^  and  who 

J  place  vie  ?  " 
(hole  eight ;  bi,t 
'     "What!" 
["perfections  of 
^'ou  have  pride 

^^"^nt,  struck  nie 
pel  -said  ;  "  W'l^^^ 
"yotidid  not; 
Id  may  refuse  to 
fiat  family  back 
•      "Of"  course 
't  is  because  I 
J  <Ieprecate." 
■■'^"ce  told  nie 
[«'  i  had  alvva3s 
"'■ise  in  propor- 
hini, 

enough  in  you, 
f  I  have  exag- 
"">  it  was  only 

ts  of  the  worst 
•  ''»'"ong  them 
'g-tried  virtue, 
"lien  we  see 
-"■s  lie  in  our 
^"rf  ir  I  have 
same  service 
as  better  for 
)ne." 

''  dear  chiltl, 
with  regret, 
our  conver- 
Ij*  why  are 
ractise  reli- 
sted nie  to 


SELF-SATISFIED   VIRTUE. 


391 


"You  might  better  ask  me,"  he  replied,  "why  I  give  you  so  many 
good  precepts,  and  at  the  same  time  set  you  such  bad  example  ;  for 
I  took  upon  myself  as  a  refutation  of  that  old  saying,  C'esf  dejd  etn 
virtueux  que  d' aimer  la  vertu.  (To  love  virtue  is  to  be  already  virtu- 
ous). But  set  me  aside,  and  look  to  yourself.  I  do  not  find  that 
you  are  half  as  deserving  in  the  sight  of  God,  since  you  profess  to 
honor  and  serve  Him,  as  you  were  before,  when  you  declared  your- 
self His  enemy,  by  professing  to  be  an  infidel.  I  looked  upon  you 
as  more  of  a  Christian  then  than  I  ever  have  since," 

1  was  horrified  at  this  assertion,  and  tried  to  withdraw^  my  hand. 
But  he  held  it,  in  spite  of  me,  and  said  I  was  not  going  to  get  away 
from  him  until  I  had  heard  him  through.  Said  he :  "I  suppose  this  is 
just  the  way  you  do  when  you  go  to  confession.  You  bolt  the  moment 
the  priests  begin  to  expose  to  you  your  faults.  But  I  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  them ;  for  I  shall  hold  on  to  you  until  you  have  heard 
nie  through." 

I  began  to  laugh  and  to  look  upon  the  whole  thing  as  a  farce,  and 
replied  that  it  was  a  pity  the  priests  had  not  the  same  privilege.  He 
too  began  laughing,  and  retorted  that  they  would  never  be  able  to  get 
a  woman  to  come  to  confession,  if  they  had.  "But,"  he  continued,  "  I 
am  serious.  Since  your  conversion  I  have  noticed  that  you  are  not  half 
as  charitable  and  forgiving  as  you  were  before. 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  then  it  was  because  I  used  to  feel  so  wicked  myself, 
that  I  never  dared  to  retaliate  on  others  for  offending  me,  lest  God 
should  retaliate  on  me  for  my  offences  against  Him  ;  and  I  never 
dared  to  judge  others,  when  I  felt  that  a  severer  judgment  should 
be  passed  on  myself." 

"  There,"  he  replied,  "  by  your  own  words  I  condemn  you  :  for  that 
inward  sense  of  vour  own  unworthiness  was  more  pleasing  to  God 
than  all  your  good  works  and  actions  are  now,  accompanied  as  they 
are  by  the  spirit  of  self-complacency  and  pride.  I  hardly  ever  knew 
you,  before  you  professed  to  be  a  Christian,  to  say  an  unkind  word 
against  any  one,  or  attempt  to  avenge  an  injury,  and  that  to  me  was 
your  greatest  charm  :  you  subdued  me  by  it,  and  I  used  to  give  my- 
self up  entirely  to  your  influence.  But  now  I  have  to  be  on  my 
guard  against  you,  for  fear  you  will  lead  me  to  commit  some  injustice, 
just  to  gratify  your  wounded  pride." 

I  did  not  deny  the  truth  of  what  he  said  to  me,  but  tried  to  justify 
myself,  by  telling  him  that  1  could  not  forgive  people  their  selfishness, 


W' 


392 


PREACHING  AND   PRACTICE. 


since  I  saw  how  much  good  could  be  done  by  giving  more  of  our 
time  and  means  to  others. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  that  is  just  it  :  you  set  yourself  up  as  the  arbi- 
tress  of  other  people's  actions,  instead  of  humbly  thanking  God  for 
having  given  you  a  natural  disposition  to  sympathize  with  sufferers, 
which  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  restrain.  He  may  have  denied  the 
same  blessing  to  others,  and  he  will  only  exact  of  them  a  return  in 
proportion  to  the  talents  he  has  given  them. 

Said  I :  "It  is  true,  for  when  I  used  to  do  wrong,  I  felt  that  I 
merited  reproach,  and  I  used  to  forgive  everybody  whatever  tliey 
might  do  or  say  against  me  ;  but  now  that  I  am  trying  to  do  right,  I 
hate  everybody  wlio  dares  to  attack  me." 

"  Well,"  he  reijlied,  "  that  is  not  being  a  Christian.  Wlien  you 
were  an  infidel,  you  practised  the  most  essential  Christian  virtues ; 
but  now  that  you  are  a  professed  Christian,  you  do  just  the  con- 
trary :  whereas  it  is  more  your  duty  now  to  love  those  who  hate  you, 
than  it  was  then.  You  had  much  more  humility  and  charity  then 
than  you  have  now,  and  charity  is  all  God  asks  of  us.  If  you  con- 
tinue to  retrograde  for  the  next  six  months,  as  you  have  duiing  the 
six  i^ast,  the  result  will  be  that  you  will  become  one  of  the  worst  of 
those  disagreeable  devotees,  who  change  their  adoration  from  (iod 
to  themselves,  and  their  hatred  of  sin  to  the  hatred  of  those  wlio 
refuse  to  acknowledge  their  sanctity.  Now  I  would  rather  see  you  a 
Magdalen,  with  all  her  sins,  than  one  of  these  ;  and  I  v/ill  give  you 
six  months  more  to  become  one  of  them,  unless  you  stop  seeking 
yourself  in  God,  instead  of  seeking  God  in  yourself." 

"You  do  me  more  good,"  I  remarked,  "when  you  talk  to  me, 
than  any  confessor  I  ever  had  yet." 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  he  answered,  "  that  there  was  ever  one  yet 
who  was  able  to  keep  you  long  enough  for  you  to  hear  him  througli." 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  just  what  the  good  lady  declared  :  so  you  see 
that  you  and  she  are  alike." 

"  Alike  ?  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  that  would  be  jiaying  her  a  poor 
conipliment  to  compare  her  with  me ;  for  by  what  you  tell  me,  I 
should  judge  that  she  practises  what  she  preaches." 


more  of  our 


A  DISCOVERY. 


393 


fip  as  the  arbi. 
Inking  God  for 
W'lth  sufferers, 
ive  denied  the 
pni  a  return  in 

I  felt  that  I 

[whatever  tliey 

to  do  right,  I 

•  ^yhen  yon 
[istian  virtues  ; 
just  the  con' 
who  hate  you, 
['  charity  then 
^f  you  con- 
ive  du. ing  tile 
'f  the  worst  of 
ion  from  f;od 
of  those  Avho 
''ler  see  you  a 
will  give  you 
stop  seeking 

talk  to  nie, 

ver  one  yet 
nil  througli." 
'  so  you  see 

'^er  a  j)oor 
tell   me,  I 


CHAPTER   LXXVIII. 


A   GLEAM    OF    HOPE, 


As  soon  as  Laferri^re  left  me,  I  went  into  my  bed-room  to  pray. 
Ill  a  few  seconds  I  heard  the  children's  voices,  and  as  the  strains  of 
the  melody,  which  pealed  forth  the  Ave  Maria,  reached  me,  they 
seemed  to  awaken  my  soul  to  a  more  steadfast  faith  than  I  had  ever 
before  experienc*.  When  the  music  ceased  I  arose,  turned  over 
the  hour-glass,  and  prayed  until  its  sands  had  run  through.  Then  I 
lighted  my  votive  lamp  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  which  I  never  lit  ex- 
cept on  Saturdays  Then  I  went  to  work  examining  Giustini's 
pai)ers,  and  worked  assiduously  until  dinner-time.  I  took  a  few  of 
them  to  the  table  with  me,  and  looked  at  them  during  the  interval 
when  the  waiter  was  changing  the  courses,  so  as  not  to  lose  a  min- 
ute's time. 

After  dinner  I  locked  myself  in,  with  a  prohibition  that  any  one 
should  come  near  me  unless  I  rang.  The  clock  struck  eight.  My 
iiead  ached :  I  had  worked  so  steadily  that  I  was  sure  I  must  have 
mistaken  the  number  of  strokes.  I  was  certain  that  it  must  be  nine. 
I  looked ;  but  it  was  only  eight.  I  then  turned  wearily  to  resume 
my  task.  The  clock  struck  nine.  I  again  rose,  feeling  so  discouraged 
that  I  was  ready  to  weep.  Again  I  sat  down,  took  up  a  paper, 
opened  it,  and  nearly  swooned  away  with  joy.  I  could  not  be  mis- 
taken ;  for  it  resembled  a  paper  that  the  Executive  in  Washington 
had  once  given  to  my  husband,  and  which  was  still  in  my  possession  : 
the  paper  that  I  now  grasped  was  Giustini's  exequ(ytur. 

I  did  not  wait  to  rtftid  it.  I  merely  recognized  the  French  offi- 
cial seal,  and  the  signature  of  the  Count  de  Bentivoglio.  I  rushed 
into  my  bed-room,  threw  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  and  began  embracing  the  very  pedestal  on  which  it 
stood  ;  and  by  the  dim  light  of  my  votive  lamp,  I  read  that  paper, 
which  my  heart  told  me  was  to  be  the  saviour  of  that  wretched 
family. 

I  picked  up  the  list  of  accusations  which  I  had  thrown  on  the 
floor  and  had  afterwards  kicked  under  tlie  bed,  so  as  to  be  perfectly 
sure  that  I  could  nof  be  mistaken.     There  it  was,  in  black  and  white, 
17* 


M-      ' 


it 


i  '' 


,   h 


f'i 


;'i? 


394 


CONFIDENCE  REWARDED. 


that  he  had  ne/c;  had  an  exequatur,  and  had  never  been  officially 
delegated. 

The  whole  truth  flashed  over  me  at  once,  how  it  had  been  pos- 
sible for  Meurand  to  make  such  a  mistake.  The  paper  had  been 
issued  twelve  years  previous  by  the  Count  de  Bentivoglio,  who  was 
then  consul  at  Aleppo,  and  who  had  been  authorized  by  the  minister 
to  appoint  a  consular  agent  at  Aintab.  The  probability  was  that 
Bentivoglio  had  never  made  a  note  of  it  in  his  official  report,  Ain- 
tab having  no  commercial  importance  to  France,  with  no  salary  at- 
tached to  the  office  there ;  and  for  that  reason,  Giustini's  name  had 
never  appeared  on  the  files  at  the  consulate  department  in  France, 
and  when  Giustini  arrived,  he  was  so  confounded  by  his  reception, 
no  one  deigning  to  give  him  even  a  hearing,  that  he  entirely  lost  his 
wits,  and  had  not  had  sense  enough  to  produce  the  only  paper  among 
the  hundreds  he  handed  to  me  that  was  of  any  importance. 

I  never  had  such  faith  in  a  Divine  Providence  as  was  given  me  at 
that  moment ;  for  I  felt  that  it  had  led  me  to  his  door,  and  was  sure 
that  that  was  done  in  reward  for  that  wife's  steadfast  faith  and  confi- 
dence in  the  intercession  of  the  Mother  of  God.  No  one  could  have 
doubted  it,  could  he  have  seen  her  at  prayer ;  and  I  felt  from  the 
beginning  that  there  could  not  be  a  (iod  in  heaven  if  He  refused  to 
assist  me  in  my  efforts  to  restore  that  unfortunate  mother  to  her 
children. 

Having  read  once  more  the  accusations,  I  began  to  calculate  how 
I  should  catch  Meurand,  so  as  to  make  the  most  of  the  exequatur; 
and  I  began  to  pray  God  to  inspire  me  what  to  do,  for  I  could  not 
at  once  decide  the  best  use  to  make  of  so  slight  an  advantage  in  an- 
swer to  such  a  catalogue  of  charges. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  the  Pantheon,  as  usual,  to  make  my 
offering.  But  as  soon  as  I  started,  I  began  tliinking  of  what  the  lady 
of  charity  had  said  to  me,  and  my  conscience  began  to  smite  me  for 
changing  my  confessors  so  often.  I  had  sense  enough  to  know  that 
it  was  not  from  virtue  that  I  had  ever  changed  them,  and  that  the 
only  fault  I  had  to  find  with  them  was  that  they  found  so  much  fault 
with  me.  When  I  reached  the  Pantheon,  I  went  immediately  to  St. 
Genevidve's  altar,  and  thanked  God  that  I  had  escaped  the  woman 
that  morning,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  see  her.  In  my  outburst  of  gra- 
titude, I  promised  our  Lord  that,  when  He  would  make  me  a  better 
woman,  I  would  stop  changing  my  confessors. 


I   WRITE   TO   THE  MINISTER. 


395 


[een  officially 

id  been  pos- 
ter had  been 
''o,  who  was 
the  minister 
[hty  was  tliat 
report,  Ain- 
no  salary  at- 
I's  name  had 
t  in  France, 
lis  reception, 
'tireJy  lost  his 
jpaper  among 
(ce. 

given  me  at 
"(1  was  sure 
[ith  and  confi- 
'e  could  have 
Ifelt  from  the 
le  refused  to 
other  to  her 

alculate  how 
-  exequatur; 
J  could  not 
ntage  in  an- 

to  make  my 
lat  the  lady 
fiiite  me  for 
'  know  that 
>fJ  that  the 
i»uch  fault 
itely  to  St. 
he  woman 
rst  of  gra- 
le  a  better 


When  I  returned  home,  I  was  disappointed  in  not  receiving  a  letter 
from  England,  from  the  English  girl's  family ;  but  I  still  hoped  that 
the  afternoon's  mail  would  bring  me  some  intelligence  from  them,  for 
I  dreaded  being  obliged  to  have  the  girl  buried  in  the  potter' s-fiela. 

I  wrote  a  few  lines  to  the  Marquis  de  Moustier,  which  were  to 
accompany  General  Dix's  letter.  I  was  afraid  that  the  fact  of  living  in 
the  Abbaye  aux  Bois  would  prevent  him  giving  me  an  audience,  as  he 
might  suspect  that  it  was  some  pious  old  woman  after  a  subscription, 
and  refer  me  to  his  secretary.  In  order  to  prevent  any  possibility  of 
being  refused,  I  wrote  him  to  send  an  immediate  answer  to  my  resi- 
dence at  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois,  so  that  I  might  not  be  delayed  in 
receiving  it,  as  I  otherwise  would  be,  if  he  sent  it  to  the  American 
legation,  and  I  hoped  that  the  fact  of  residing  at  the  Abbaye  would 
not  prejudice  my  request  to  such  an  extent,  that  I  would  receive  the 
customary  unvarying  ministerial  reply,  that  '■'■His  Excellence  was  out, 
or  his  Excellence  had  go?ie  to  his  chateau"  when  it  was  well  known 
that  his  Excellence  was  at  home ;  but,  to  allay  any  prejudice  that  my 
pious  asylum  might  raise  in  his  mind,  I  thought  it  prudent  to  add, 
that  1  was  not  residing  at  the  Abbaye  for  seclusion,  but  for  protection. 
That  it  would  be  useless  to  refer  me  or  my  case  to  his  secretary,  for 
neither  of  us  would  go  to  him ;  that  I  wished  to  see  hiniself,  only 
himself,  and  if  he  would  give  me  an  audience  and  immediately  grant 
my  request,  if  ever  he  built  a  temple  to  Gratitude,  I  would  volunteer 
to  serve  in  it,  as  high-priestess,  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  , 

I  then  took  what  I  had  written,  and  wrapped  it  around  General 
Dix's  letter,  and  enclosed  the  whole  in  a  white  perfumed  envelope, 
with  rose-tinted  lining,  upon  which  my  initials  were  neatly  stamped 
in  lilac  and  gold. 

I  knew  that  if  he  was  as  gallant  as  Laferri6re  represented  him  to 
be,  he  would  not  fail  to  reply,  I  had  hardly  finished  my  letter  when 
Laferriere's  carriage  drove  into  the  yard.  I  thrust  the  letter  quickly 
into  my  pocket,  for  I  did  not  intend  that  Laferriere  should  see  the  ap- 
pendix to  General  Dix's  letter  of  introduction,  as  he  might  prevent  mc 
sending  it,  out  of  respect  to  the  General.  I  went  to  the  window, 
and  saw  that  his  footman,  who  was  with  him,  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  chat  with  the  cook. 

The  moment  Eaferridre  entered  he  remarked  that  he  had  brought 
Louis  along,  to  go  on  an  errand  for  him,  and  he  was  afraid  that  it  was 
all  over,  now  that  he  got  with  the  cook.     I  proposed  that  he  should 


:il 


m  i):  S    t!l 


$0 


THE  ANSWER. 


take  General  Dix's  letter  to  the  minister's.  Laferri^re  went  towards 
the  bell.  I  understood  his  movement,  but  pretended  not  to  notice  it. 
Before  he  had  time  to  speak,  and  tell  me  to  stop,  I  was  out  of  the 
room  into  the  kitchen,  where  1  quickly  thrust  the  letter  into  his 
valet's  coat-pocket,  telling  him  not  to  touch  it  for  fear  he  might  soil 
it.  I  then  gave  him  the  order,  and  begged  him  to  go  at  once,  telling 
him  to  be  sure  and  leave  my  letter,  no  matter  if  they  told  him  the 
minister  was  dead ;  for  I  was  afraid  he  might  be  stupid  enough  to 
bring  back  the  letter,  and  that  Laferri^re  would  see  into  the  ma- 
noeuvre. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Laferriere,  as  soon  as  I  came  into  the  room, 
"  there  is  an  end  now  to  the  Giustini  affair  for  the  present ;  for  good- 
ness knows  when  you  will  ever  hear  from  the  minister,  and  when  you 
do,  he  will  refer  you  to  Meurand  or  his  private  secretary.  I  would 
just  like  to  witness  an  interview  between  you  and  Meurand,  to  see 
which  of  you  got  the  advantage  in  the  dispute.  Of  course  he  would 
get  it  de  facto ;  for  he  never  would  yield  so  far  as  to  grant  anything 
that  he  had  once  set  his  seal  against." 

I  said  nothing  to  him  about  the  important  paj^er  that  I  had  found, 
for  I  was  not  decided  what  use  to  make  of  it.  Laferriere  threw  him- 
self back  in  an  arm-chair,  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  though  he  was  half 
dozing.  He  must  have  remained  in  that  position  for  at  least  twenty- 
five  minutes,  when  we  were  startled  by  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell. 

"  Oh,"  said  Laferriere,  "  that  rings  like  Louis.  But  it  does  not 
seem  as  though  he  had  had  time  to  do  both  of  our  errands."  The 
door  opened,  and  the  waiter  handed  me  a  letter,  which  Laferriere 
immediately  took  and  opened,  while  I  signed  the  receipt  for  it. 

"Well,"  said  Laferriere,  greatly  surprised,  "  what  does  this  mean? 
I  cannot  believe  my  eyes.  The  minister  writes  you,  appointing 
an  audience  for  to-morrow  morning,  at  eleven  o'clock.  Well,  he 
must  be  courting  favor  with  the  United  States,  to  give  such  promi)t 
attention  to  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the  American  Minister." 

I  was  imprudent  enough  to  say,  "That  depends."  "Ah,"  said  he, 
"  perhaps  you  have  met  the  Marquis  at  court,  and  you  know  each 
other  already  by  sight." 

I  saw  at  once  that  there  was  a  tempest  brewing  for  me,  if  I  excited 
his  jealousy,  and  I  quickly  assured  him  that  I  had  never  seen  nor 
heard  anything  about  him,  excejit  what  he  had  told  me  himself. 

He  scanned  me  closely  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said : 


.  I'r  :!f 


ONLY   A   PAUPER.' 


397 


went  towards 
[ot  to  notice  it. 
|vas  out  of  the 
|etter  into  |,is 
Mie  might  soil 
f^o"^^%tdJing 
■  told  him  (he 
P'fl  enough  to 
[into  the  ma- 
il to  the  room, 
■"t;  forgood- 
'and  when  you 
■^y-     I  would 
•"rand,  to  see 
irse  he  would 
Irant  anything 

I  Jiad  found, 
re  threw  him- 
h  he  was  half 

least  twenty- 
e  bell. 

it  does  not 
ands."     The 

-h  Laferriere 
for  it. 

this  mean  ? 
appointing 

■  H^ell,  he 
'ch  prompt 
inister." 

W  said  he, 
know  each 

f  I  excited 

■  seen  nor 
iself. 


"Don't  go  to  dressing  up  much.  Dress  simply  :  wear  your  neat, 
little,  gray  costume,  your  plain  hat,  and  your  little  black  lace  veil ;  and 
be  very  reserved,  because  these  noblemen  have  a  light  opinion  of 
the  American  women  in  general." 

1  could  see  that  he  regretted  having  consented  to  let  me  make  use 
of  General  Dix's  letter.  He  never  would  have  done  so,  had  he 
thought  it  would  ever  come  to  this.  While  he  was  advising  me  to 
dress  very  simply,  I  decided  upon  wearing  the  richest  and  most  be- 
coming costume  I  had. 

The  bell  rang  again.  This  time  it  was  Louis  who  presented  him- 
self at  the  door  and  said  :  "  I  gave  Monsieur  le  Vicomte's  message. 
I  called  first  at  the  Minister's,  but  his  Excellency  was  ouf.  I  left  the 
letter  as  madam  ordered  me  to  do."  That  set  us  both  laughing, 
and  instantly  all  suspicions  and  jealousy  vanished,  and  he  passed  the 
rest  of  his  time  preparing  my  mind  for  a  disappointment,  and  hoping 
that,  after  I  had  seen  the  Minister,  I  would  be  satisfied  with  my 
efforts,  and  leave  the  Giustinis  in  the  hands  of  God. 


CHAPTER   LXXIX. 

SAD     MEMORIES     NEARLY     THWART    MY    MISSION     OF    CHARITY. THE 

MARQUIS    DE    MOUSTIER. 

The  next  morning  I  rose  early  and  repaired  to  the  hospital.  I 
found  the  body  of  the  poor  girl  laid  in  the  coffin  I  had  ordered,  and 
placed  in  the  chapel  before  the  altar.  I  ordered  a  cross  to  be  made, 
and  marked  with  her  name,  and  placed  over  her  grave,  for  1  could 
not  give  tip  the  hope  that  the  parents  would  come  to  claim  the  body 
of  their  deceased  child. 

I  was  the  only  one  in  the  chapel,  besides  the  priest  and  the  boy 
who  served  at  Mass.  As  I  knelt  there  alone,  praying  for  the  soul  of 
this  poor  girl,  I  recollected  that  my  mother  had  died  in  a  convict's 
hospital,  and  that  there  was  no  one  near  her  to  follow  her  to  the 
grave,  or  to  mark  the  spot  where  she  lay.  I  thought,  too,  of  her  suf- 
ferings and  her  remorse,  and  compared  them  with  those  of  the  poor 
girl  whose  corpse  was  within  the  shadow  of  God's  altar.  I  was  so 
overcome  by  those  thoughts  that  I  gave  vent  to  my  feelings  and  wept 


if  j 

-tl    * 


398 


O   YE  TEARS. 


bitterly.  The  priest,  when  he  approached  the  coffin  and  had  sprin- 
kled it,  handed  me  the  asperges,  and  as  he  did  so,  he  threw  me  a  piti- 
ful glance,  for  he  doubtless  mistook  me  for  a  relative  of  the  deceased. 
His  look  only  made  me  weep  the  more,  for  my  heart  instantly  filled 
with  memories  of  my  mother,  and  I  thought  how  little  the  priest  knew 
v/hat  was  passing  in  my  mind. 

After  I  had  sprinkled  the  coffin,  I  knelt  down  again  and  continued 
to  weep.  When  the  service  was  ended,  and  the  corpse  placed  on  the 
hearse,  a  Sister  joined  me,  and  said  that  the  cross  had  been  attended 
to,  that  she  had  written  the  name,  and  that  the  boy  said  it  was  ready. 
As  the  hearse  moved  oft",  the  priest  asked  me  if  I  was  not  going  to  fol- 
low my  friend  to  the  grave.  I  told  him  that  I  had  no  time.  He 
showed  his  surprise.  When  I  told  him  that  the  girl  was  no  connection 
of  mine,  that  I  was  merely  a  lady  of  charity,  who  had  promised  to  bury 
her,  he  asked  me  to  excuse  him,  saying  that  he  had  judged  from 
my  tears  that  I  was  a  relative.  "  Oh,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "  I 
am  not  weeping  for  her,  but  for  another.  The  soul  that  I  am  weep- 
ing for,  father,  needs  our  prayers  more  than  she  ;  "  and  I  pointed  to- 
wards the  hearse,  which  was  just  moving  out  of  sight.  I  asked  him 
to  pray  for  the  soul  that  I  was  weeping  for. 

He  then  said  a  few  words  to  console  me,  and  I  instantly  recollected 
my  engagement  with  the  Minister  at  eleven  o'clock.  All  my  grief  in- 
stantly fled,  and  I  was  as  furious  as  I  could  be  with  myself,  for  having 
we])t.  If  I  had  committed  a  crime,  I  could  not  have  been  more  pro- 
voked. I  abruptly  left  the  priest,  flew  to  a  water-spout,  and  washed 
my  eyes  ;  then  rushed  into  the  porter's  lodge,  to  look  into  the  glass, 
to  see  if  my  face  was  red  and  my  eyes  swollen.  "  Yes,"  thought  I 
to  myself,  "  you  will  stand  a  pretty  chance  with  such  a  man  as  the  Mar- 
quis de  Moustier,  if  he  sees  you  with  a  face  like  a  lobster."  1  was 
annoyed  at  my  discomposed  looks,  and  felt  that  my  foolishness  would 
be  the  ruin  of  the  Giustinis  ;  for  I  reckoned  my  chances  of  success 
more  on  the  impression  I  v/ould  make  on  his  imagination  and  his 
heart,  than  I  did  upon  the  justice  of  my  cause,  or  any  sympathy  I 
might  awaken  in  him  for  the  family. 

V/hen  I  got  to  the  Abbey,  I  noticed  a  hack  standing  at  the  gate, 
on  which  was  a  little  trunk.  My  maid  met  me  at  the  door,  and  told 
me  that  there  was  a  lady  up-stairs  waiting  for  me,  who  could  not  speak 
a  word  of  French.     The  thought  did  not  instantly  occur  to  me  who 


<i    I 


I 


^  ilil 


THE  MOTHER. 


399 


1 1  saw  her,  I  knew  that  it  was  the  mother 
.      vht  be:  but  the  moment  I  saw  her, 

7;  fe  deceased  ghh  .         ^^  ^,,,  ^s  she  had  received  my 

''s      had  written  to  ^^-^  ^f  S^l^^^'He'^ext  day  ;  but  a  ragmg  storm 
r '  -he  would  leave  for  Pans  the  ne         ^  ^  ^^,^1  she  was 

^^,t,,,  tluu  =he  ^^°  .  ,^,ngerous  to  cross  the  Chann  .^^^.^^ 

t  S'teen  wa^^g  for  me  ever  since.  _^^  ^^  ^^^^  ,,,  H„a- 

r  lie  *e  services  .ere  ^-■;^-;t  r«,^;„i*  grief.  I  was  so 
t--=r^":t'"o'co„.roC;tu„gs.  «..  I  cou>.  not  s,ea. 
*tffe:;!drW<l 'again  burst  into  '»-.    ^  ^^  ,;^,pp,„ed, 

derstand  her.    Said,  ^^  ^^^^  Minister' s  "  ^^j 

tt:X  *-  '"  «-">"''  Ta"  ma  conquered  n,yse.f,  and 
An  instant  nrore  and  >t  «>=^"  """•   ,,h„le  sonl  was  bent  on  send- 
Jl  cold  andas  rif  --«=„,  f^^a  not  let  nry  ...y  i-erfere 

tViP  C^iustinis  back  to  by-  ^,  '^"•' 
Xthe'execution  of  *i-bi«t  „„,„  daughter's ^.ne 

I  told  the  woman  that  I  had  just  ret  ^^^  j^evented  by 

,.    1  wotdd  have  followed    e   <    *=    « ^  ,^^^  ^,^^^^^_  ^„,  „  „, 
■      an  important  engagement  that  ,      •  ,   ,,  I  ex- 

already  half-past  n,ne  ,„,  of  gnef,  as  1 

The  woman,  instead  of  going  ,,„  ^yes,  she  aske 

pected,  clasped  her  tends  togehe>-  ^      ..  .^,^^^„,  H,,,en, 

,„e:  "Is  she  really  dead?  Ves, 


400 


AT  THE   MINISTER'S. 


m 


she  exclaimed.  But  in  a  few  moments  afterwards,  she  began  to 
weep  :  all  her  sympathies  for  her  erring  child  had  come  back. 

We  breakfasted  together,  and  she  related  to  me  the  same  story 
that  her  daughter  had  told  before  she  died  ;  and  she  added  as  she 
finished :  "  I  am  glad  that  she  is  dead,  for  it  is  a  relief  to  my  heart, 
and  it  will  also  relieve  the  hearts  of  my  husband  and  children." 

She  told  me  that  she  left  them  in  the  greatest  affliction,  at  tlie  very 
thought  of  bringing  her  home  ;  for  they  all  feared  that  she  would 
bring  upon  them  some  terrible  disgrace.  They  had  already  rei)orted 
her  as  dead,  in  order  to  silence  the  suspicions  and  inquiries  of  the 
society  in  which  they  moved. 

I  I  explained  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  accompany  her  tliat 
morning  to  her  daughter's  grave,  nor  could  I  that  afternoon,  as  it  was 
my  reception-day.     We  deferred  it  until  the  following  morning. 

As  I  drove  to  the  ministerial  mansion  of  the  Marquis  de  Moustier 
my  bosom  was  filled  as  much  with  hatred  for  Meurand  as  with  com- 
passion for  the  Giustinis.  I  was  determined  to  have  revenge  for  his 
insolence  to  Laferri^re,  and  I  began  to  devise  how  I  might  manage 
to  torture  his  pride  ;  for  I  knew  that  a  man  whose  decisions  had 
always  been  above  rejiroach,  and  from  which  scarcely  an  appeal  had 
b  :en  made  during  thirty  years,  must  be  on  pretty  good  terms  with 
himself,  and  would  be  keenly  sensitive  to  any  rebuke,  particularly  from 
the  Minister  himself,  atui  from  such  a  Minister  ! 

As  soon  as  I  gave  my  card,  I  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the 
Minister,  who  rose  as  1  entered,  and  received  me  in  a  courtly  man- 
ner. For  a  second  I  was  abashed  by  the  grandeur  and  magnificence 
of  the  apartment,  and  the  graceful  and  indescribable  dignity  of  tlie 
Marquis.  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  of  most  prepossessing  exte- 
rior, and  charming  address. 

■  I  began  the  conversation  by  remarking,  that  I  had  applied  to  my 
Minister  for  the  interview,  because  I  thought  it  was  more  en  regie  ; 
but  perhaps  it  would  have  aided  my  cause,  if  T  had  made  his  ac- 
quaintance through  his  cousin,  the  Countess  de  Montalembert,  who 
was  my  intimate  friend.  At  the  mere  mention  of  the  Countess' 
name,  the  whole  expression  of  his  countenance  and  his  manner 
changed,  and  I  saw  that  he  hoped  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  oblige 
me  ;  for,  after  speaking  admiringly  of  her  talents  and  her  wit,  he  re- 
marked that  she  had  treated  him  coolly  since  he  had  accepted  a 
position  under  the  Empire,  which  treatment  he  deeply  regretted. 


PLEADING  THE   CASE. 


401 


h  ^'^^  ''egan  to 
l»e  back. 

I  the  same  story 

b  added  as  she 

pf  to  my  heart, 

F^hildren." 

Ition,  at  the  very 

[that  she  would 

^Iready  reported 

Pnquiries  of  the 

^"pany  her  tliat 
fJioon,  as  it  was 

morning. 
us  <Ie  Moustier 
'd  as  with  coni- 

|revenge  for  his 
"light  manage 

•  decisions  had 
an  appeal  had 

3od  tenns  with 

articularlyfroni 

presence  of  the 
I  courtly  maii- 
1  magnificence 
dignity  of  tlie 
)ssessing  exte- 

>ph"ed  to  my 
3re  en  regie  ; 
iiade  his  ac- 
enibert,  who 
e  Countess' 

his  manner 
er  to  obhge 

wit,  he  re- 
accepted  a 
[letted. 


Presently  our  conversation  became  animated  and  extremely  amus- 
ing. All  at  once  he  recollected  himself,  and  said  :  "  But  you  came 
to  ask  a  favor  of  me  ?  "  I  laughed  as  I  replied  :  "  And  you  have 
just  reminded  me  of  it." 

He  was  not  insensible  to  the  compliment ;  and  we  must  have  con- 
tinued to  chat  at  least  twenty  minutes  longer,  when  he  reminded  me 
that  1  should  not  go,  without  telling  him  what  he  could  do  to  serve 
me. 

I  then  pulled  two  papers  out  of  my  pocket.  One  Avas  the  list  of 
accusations,  and  the  other  was  the  exequatur.  And  I  related  to 
h'm  the  scene  of  last  Friday  evening,  when  I  visited  the  Giustinis. 
I  began  with  the  doorkeeper,  and  ended  with  the  vow  I  had  made,  in 
the  name  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  never  to  abandon  them  until  the 
Government  sent  them  home. 

The  Marquis  was  deeply  moved  and  exceedingly  interested.  As 
soon  as  I  ceased  speaking,  he  said  with  earnestness :  "  I  will  attend 
to  it  at  once,  and  see  that  justice  is  done." 

I  replied  :  "  I  have  not  come  for  justice,  but  for  mercy, — and  re- 
venge ;  and  I  instantly  handed  him  the  list  of  accusations.  He  began 
reading  them  attentively,  but  had  not  read  far,  when  he  turned  over 
the  leaf  to  glance  at  the  signature;  and  the  moment  he  perceived 
Meurand's  name,  with  his  official  seal,  he  said:  "This  man  must  be 
an  arrant  knave  and  impostor."  Said  I  :  "Which  of  them  do  you 
mean,  Meurand  or  Giustini  ?  " 

He  replied  :  "  Why,  your  proteg^,  of  course."  Said  I :  "It  Avill 
take  a  good  deal  to  convince  me  that  Meurand  is  not  a  greater  one." 
Which  reply  made  the  Martjuis  smile.  After  he  finished  reading  the 
paper,  and  was  going  to  hand  it  back  to  me,  I  said  :  "  But  those  ac- 
cusations are  all  lies."  "That  is  impossible,"  he  answered  ;  "for  here 
is  Meurand's  name,  with  his  official  seal.  Whatever  he  endorses, 
can  be  relied  upon."  "  Yet,"  said  I,  "  take  my  word  for  it,  they  are 
all  false."  The  Minister  then  undertook  to  explain  to  me  who  Mr. 
Meurand  was,  and  what  were  his  responsibilities. 

I  impatiently  interrupted  him  and  said :  "  You  cannot  tell  me 
anything  about  Meurand,  for  I  know  more  about  him  than  you  do, 
and  I  have  come  here  to  expose  him.  A  foreign  family  have  served 
the  French  government  eleven  years,  and  are  induced  to  come  on 
here  by  such  men  as  the  Mayor  of  St.  Germain,  Chatry  de  Lafosse, 
the  Count  de  Lesseps,  and  other  diplomatists,  to  demand  remunera- 


'1 


tiy 


ii. 


I 


402 


THE  MINISTER  CONFESSES. 


tion.     They  came  all  the  way  from  Syria,  and  have  been  here  seven 
months,  without  being  permitted  to  speak  to  any  one  but  your  valets." 

"  But,"  said  the  Minister,  "  look  at  these  accusations.  The  chiefs 
of  the  dei)artments  have  too  much  business  to  attend  to,  to  be  able 
to  receive  every  impostor  and  knave  who  dares  to  set  up  a  claim 
against  the  government." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  that  is  just  what  I  expected  ;  that  you  would  side 
with  Meurand.  He  appears  to  have  deluded  the  whole  Empire  into 
a  beHef  in  his  infallibility."  "  My  dear  ALidam,"  replied  the  Mar- 
quis, "you  would  not  wish  me  to  side  against  truth  and  justice?" 

I  replied :  "'  1  do  not  wish  you  to  ;  but  it  appears  that  you  are 
determined,  whether  I  will  or  not.  And  I  assure  you  that  if  Giustini 
is  a  scoundrel,  Meurand  is  not  much  better,  and  very  impertinent 
at  that,  to  make  up  such  a  list  of  accusations,  and  not  permit  a  man 
to  come  forward  and  defend  himself.  Why,  he  even  presumes  to 
insult  one  of  his  Majesty's  officials,  who  comes  and  demands  that 
something  shall  be  done  for  this  man.  It  would  be  a  nice  bone  for 
the  hostile  press  to  pick  at,  to  be  able  to  say  that  one  of  the  Empe- 
ror's consuls,  who  had  been  in  office  eleven  years,  was  permitted  to 
die  of  starvation  right  in  sight  of  the  Tuileries." 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  Marquis's  face,  as  I  spoke.  I  did  not 
give  him  a  chance  to  reply,  but  took  advantage  of  his  emotion  to 
add  :  "And  that  is  just  the  way  business  is  conducted  in  this  depart- 
ment. Everybody  knows  that  you  pass  most  of  your  time  at  the 
chase,  in  boudoirs,  or  at  the  races,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  you 
to  surmise  all  this,  unless  somebody  has  the  charity  to  come  and  tell 
you  of  it." 

M.  de  Moustier  tried  to  suppress  his  smiles,  leaned  over,  and  strik- 
ing his  breast  three  times,  exclaimed,  "  Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa,  inea 
maxima  culpa."  He  then  added  :  "  I  confess  that  I  am  more 
deserving  of  your  censure  than  the  chief  of  the  consulate  depart- 
ment." "Yes,"  said  I;  "but  you  will  reform,  and  put  order  up 
there  now ;  for  it  stands  .in  great  need  of  it,  when  Meurand  will 
boldly  declare  that  a  man  has  received  no  exequatur  when  he  has 
one." 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  the  minister,  "  that  is  the  most  important  accu- 
sation of  all;  and  therein  Meurand  cannot  be  mistaken."  "tat," 
said  I,  "  he  has  an  Exequatur."  The  minister  continued  to  deny  it, 
and  I  continued  to  affijni  it,  until  I  saw  that  his  patience  was  at  an 


THE   SUIT  WON. 


403 


'lere  seven 
■'oiir  valets." 

'^''lo  chiefs 
}'  ^o  Ije  able 
jt  up  a  claim 

•  would  side 
l^'iiipire  into 
-(1  the  iMar- 
[justice?" 
Iiat  you  are 
jf  Oiustini 
impertinent 

piiiiit  a  man 

presumes   to 
wands  that 

[^e  bone  for 
tlie  p:mpe- 

'eniiitted   to 

I  did  not 

5  emotion  to 

this  depart- 

time  at  the 

t)le  for  you 

n>e  and  tell 

^,  and  strik- 

am  more 
tte  depart- 

order  up 
iirand  will 
-n  he  has 

tant  accu- 
"int," 
5  deny  it, 
vas  at  an 


end.  I  then  drew  my  chair  towards  him,  and  looking  him  straight 
in  the  face,  I  said  to  him  :  "I  will  make  you  a  wager  that  he  has  an 
exequatur.  If  I  can  jiroduce  it,  you  must  promise  me  to  send  him 
and  his  family  back  to  Syria ;  and  if  I  fail,  I  promise  you  never  to 
niention  the  subject  again." 

"I  agree  to  it,  madan;,  most  willingly,"  the  marquis  exclaimed  ; 
for  his  patience  was  thoroughly  exhausted.  "  What,"  said  I,  "  do 
vou  promise  me  to  send  them  back  at  once,  if  I  can  produce  his  Ex- 
equatur ?  "  "  Certainly,  madam,  parole  de  ministre''  Said  1 :  "  That 
is  sufficient ;  and  throwing  the  paj^er  to  him,  with  a  triumphant  air, 
1  exclaimed ;   "  Thkre  it  is." 

He  opened  it,  and  instantly  rose  to  his  feet,  and  advanced  towards 
the  table ;  then  hesitated,  looked  over  the  list  of  accusations,  to  see 
that  he  had  read  aright,  and  was  just  going  to  ring,  when  I  begged 
him  to  wait  a  moment.  Said  he  :  *'  I  am  in  no  hurry  :  I  was  only 
anxious  to  serve  you."  "Yes,"  said  I,  "but  1  have  my  cor.f-^^Mon 
to  make.  I  have  been  trifling  with  you  all  the  while.  I  ask  your 
pardon,  and  hope  you  will  be  my  friend." 

He  smiled,  and  inclined,  as  graciously  as  when  I  first  entered  the 
room.  Said  I,  "I  believe  this  man  Giustini  is  guilty  of  every  charge 
made  against  him.  But  for  his  wife  and  children's  sake,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  have  them  sent  back  to  Syria.  That  affair  is  settled,  as 
your  Excellency  has  just  given  me  your  word."  He  nodded  an  as- 
sent. "  But  now,"  I  continued,  "  I  have  another  favor  to  ask,  which 
I  have  still  deeper  at  heart.  I  love  Laferriere,  and  I  hate  Meurand 
for  the  unceremonious  way  he  received  him.  I  was  the  cause,  be- 
cause it  was  out  of  devotion  to  me,  that  the  Viscount  interested  him- 
self in  the  family  ;  and  1  look  to  you  to  avenge  me.  For  we  iiave 
caught  Meurand." 

I  then  told  him  how  I  suspected  the  mistake  had  been  made.  He 
agreed  with  me.  I  then  begged  him  to  take  advantage  of  it,  so  as  to 
give  Meurand  a  pretty  sound  humiliation,  before  he  gave  him  a  chance 
of  throwing  the  blame  on  Bentivoglio.  The  minister's  face  lighted 
up,  and  I  suspected  that  he  was  not  displeased  with  the  opportunity 
I  had  given  him,  to  say  that  he  was  the  only  minister  that  had  ever 
been  able  to  show  Meurand  that  he  could  make  a  mistake. 

"  It  will  be  satisfaction  enough  for  the  Viscount,"  said  he,  "  when 
he  sees  that  1  will  oblige  Meurand  to  send  them  home." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  I ;  "  that  may  be  enough  to  gratify  Laferriere,  but 


I 


;•  i 


>  I 


r\\\ 

\M^  Bni  r' 

1 

404 


A   CONFIDENTIAL  TALK. 


i^ 


nothing  less  than  a  good  rebuke  will  ever  satisfy  me.  The  Marquis  he"m 
to  laugh,  and  said  that  he  might  have  suspected  that  there  was  love  and 
revenge  mixed  up  in  tiie  matter.  I  rep'^ed  that  I  was  actuated  by 
the  best  of  inotives,  when  I  started  out  to  assist  this  family,  that  1  did 
it  from  pure  love  of  God  and  my  neighbor ;  but  that  the  devil  had 
mixed  himself  in  the  business,  the  moment  Laferriere  complained  that 
Meurand  had  treated  him  uncivilly. 

"  V/ell,"  replied  the  Minister,  "  I  promise  you  that  you  shall  have 
full  satisfaction." 

..  As  I  felt  that  I  had  accomplished  everything  I  came  for,  I  rose  to 
go,  but  he  detained  me,  and  all  at  once  our  conversation  took  a  con- 
fidential turn  in  regard  to  the  government  and  some  of  its  officials, 
so  much  so  that  he  lowered  his  voice,  although  we  were  sitting  near  a 
table  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious  room. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  there  is  no  danger  of  any  one  listening,  is  there  ?" 
"No,"  he  replied,  "but — it  is  better  to  speak  low."  Said  Ir  "I 
am  not  going  to  open  my  li])s,  until  you  look  behind  the  portieres;" — 
and  we  both  of  us  rose.  He  went  to  one  side  of  the  room,  and  I  to 
the  other,  and  looked  behind  the  drapery  that  hung  before  the  doors. 

When  we  resumed  our  seats,  I  laughed  and  exclaimed,  "  I  know 
more  about  those  fellows  than  you  think  I  do."  "  What  fellows  ?"  said 
he.  "  Ah,  "  said  I,  "  don't  you  supj^ose  I  know  what  you  are  afraid  of? 
And  you  have  reason  to  be;  liut  1  did  not  suppose  that  they  would  dare 
to  insinuate  themselves  into  the  interior  of  this  palace.  You  nnist  go 
to  America  to  breathe  freely.  I  sometimes  feel  that  my  very  breath  is 
chained  here."  "  In  fact,"  he  replied,  in  an  under  tone,  "  we  never  can 
tell  whether  our  servants  are  enrolled  among  them  or  not."  "  You 
are  talking  to  no  novice,"  said  L     "  If  you  only  knew  my  experience." 

'I'his  excited  his  curiosity,  and  he  insisted  ui)on  my  telling  him  my 
experience,  i)romising  on  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  never  to  betray 
me.  I  had  said  so  much,  that  1  was  afraid,  if  I  did  not  tell  him,  he 
might  suspect  that  I  was  among  them  myself;  and  as  there  is  no 
character,  that  I  look  upon  as  more  hatefully  despicable  than  that  of 
a  spy,  I  was  determined  to  rid  his  mind  of  any  such  suspicions, — al- 
though some  persons  of  rank  did  not  disdain  to  occupy  that  position, 
not  only  for  the  Emperor,  but  even  for  Bismarck. 


■^^'irquis  began 

Jre  was  love  and 

I'ls  actuated  by 

('"''}'-  that  J  (l,;! 

"le  devil  had 

fonijjiained  that 

[you  shall  have 

Je  for,  I  rose  to 
|o»  took  a  con- 
|of  its  officials, 
f-e  sitting  near  a 

"'"g.  is  there?" 
Said  I:  " j 

portieres;  " 

'■oo'n,  and  I  to 
're  the  doors. 
f'"ed,  "Iknrtw 
t  fellows? "said 
'"  are  afraid  of? 
'iey  would  (laie 

^OH    MlMSt  go 

^  very  breath  is 
'we  never  can 
not."      -  You 

*'f^xperience." 
-"ing  hiiu  my 
'er  to  betray 
f^'H  him,  lie 
'  there  is  no 
t'lan  that  of 
picions,  — al- 
I'lt  position, 


THE  PREFECT  OF  POLICE. 


405 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

ESPIONAGE,  A  TWO-EDGED  SWORD. — THE  SECRET  POLICE  OF  PARIS. 

I  WAS  in  splendid  humor,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  just  triumphed  over 
the  lower  regions,  in  securing  Giustini's  return;  and  I  kept  the 
Marquis  laughing  the  whole  time  I  was  relating  to  him  what  I  knew 
about  the  Secret  Police  : 

"  Last  summer,  when  I  was  at  Mont  Dore,  I  had  my  rooms  in  the 
centre  building  on  the  rear.  Pietri,  the  Prefect  of  Police,  arrives  and 
takes  two  rooms  opposite  mine,  and  one  on  each  side.  There  I  was 
as  it  were  actually  hemmed  into  my  apartment  by  the  cuirass  of  the 
French  Government. 

"  I  did  not  suppose  that  I  was  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  placed 
under  the  surveillance  of  the  police,  except  from  the  fact  that  1  was 
intimate  with  ladies  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  who  were 
bitterly  opposed  to  the  F>mpire. 

"These  ladies  I  never  invited  to  my  rooms,  lest  they  should  say 
something  derogatory  to  the  government ;  and  I  did  not  wish  to  have 
my  name  mixed  up  with  anything  of  the  sort. 

"  Whenever  I  give  dinners,  I  always  require  an  extra  valet.  I  had 
returned  but  a  few  days  from  Mont  Dore,  when  a  young  man  pre- 
sented himself,  and  offered  to  come  and  serve  me  at  my  extra  din- 
ners, for  half  the  price  I  was  accustomed  to  pay.  He  showed  me 
excellent  references  from  the  best  families,  and  I  took  him.  He 
gave  me  his  address  in  an  obscure  part  of  Paris,  which  was  situated 
several  miles  from  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois,  and  told  ine  that  he  had  a 
friend  residing  near  the  Abbey,  and,  whenever  I  needed  him,  to  ad- 
dress him  in  care  of  his  friend.  I  found  him  verv  efficient,  far  more 
so  than  any  servant  I  had  ever  had  ;  but,  from  the  moment  my  maid 
laid  eyes  upon  him,  she  declared  that  this  man  had  been  Pietri's  valet 
at  Mont  Dore,  and  that  she  noticed  that  hv  was  always  watching 
me  there ;  that,  when  1  was  on  the  promenade,  she  had  seen  him 
looking  at  rne  fiom  the  top  of  the  house,  and  had  once  caught  him 
following  us  up  the  mountain.  I  tokl  her  that  she  must  be  mistaken, 
for  Pietri's  valet  had  a  moustache,  and  did  not  resemble  this  man  in 
the  least. 


1^ 


^11 


■V  IN 


; 


mi 


!j*' 


i 


I 


406 


THE  prefect's  VALET. 


"My  maid  replied:  *I  will  admit  that  he  does  not  resemble  him 
much.  But  every  time  I  caught  him  watching  you,  he  would  dodge 
out  of  sight  so  quickly,  that  I  could  almost  imagine  no  one  was  there. 
And  this  fellow  resembles  him  in  his  ways,  for  when  you  were  in  your 
bedroom,  the  other  day,  1  caught  him  in  the  narrow  corridor,  that 
leads  to  it,  and  he  made  the  same  quick  exit,  and  goodness  knows 
where  he  disappeared  to.' 

"  She  told  me  that  she  had  accused  him  of  being  Pietri's  valet,  but 
that  he  had  denied  his  master,  and  declared  that  he  never  heard  his 
name  before ;  and  the  more  she  accused  him,  the  more  vehemently  he 
denied  it.  •         / 

"As  my  maid,  however,  had  more  perseverance  than  the  one  who 
accused  St.  Peter,  she  one  night  borrowed  a  bonnet,  a  pair  of  spec- 
tacles, and  a  vail,  and  dogged  his  steps,  till  they  led  her  directly  to 
the  Prefect's  door.  I  rewarded  her  for  her  curiosity  and  perseverance, 
and  told  her  not  to  intimate  to  him  that  we  knew  his  true  character. 
I  suspected  that  she  was  trying  to  make  me  her  dupe,  and  had  trump- 
ed up  this  story  to  get  rid  of  the  young  man,  so  as  to  bring  back  the 
valet  I  had  discharged. 

"  I  determined  to  watch  the  fellow  myself,  and  to  play  police  on  the 
police,  so  as  to  be  fully  satisfied  before  I  discharged  him.  When  I 
engaged  him  for  a  dinner,  he  would  always  come  in  the  morning,  and 
pass  the  day  doing  extra  work  about  the  aparthients.  The  next 
time  he  came,  whenever  I  went  into  a  room,  no  matter  if  there  was 
any  one  with  me  or  not,  I  would  wait  until  I  thought  that  it  was  time 
for  him  to  be  listening,  when  I  would  spring  out  of  the  room  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  liare  ;  and  I  invariably  caught  him  escaping  with  the 
movements  of  a  Thug. 

"  One  day  I  went  into  my  bedroom,  and  knelt  down  and  prayed :  '  O 
God,  help  me  to  catch  him  ; '  and  with  that  I  made  a  spring,  and  I 
saw  him  vanish  through  a  door  that  led  into  the  main  corridor.  1 
tried  the  door  and  found  that  its  hinges  had  been  oiled.  I  then  went 
into  the  antechamber,  and  looking  through  the  grating  in  the  door  I 
distinctly  saw  him  dodge  back  into  the  narrow  corridor,  and,  as  he 
swept  by  me,  he  put  a  papt  'nto  his  coat-pocket.  I  was  afraid  that 
it  was  one  of  my  letters  whu  w  he  had  stolen,  and  I  began  to  think 
how  I  should  get  this  paper. 

"  I  was  furiously  excited,  and  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  re- 
strain myself  from  going  up  to  him,  and  snatching  the  paper  out  of 


WATCHFUL       SERVANT. 


^ 


&t  resemble  hin, 

^e  would  dodge 

-  one  was  there. 

pou  were  in  yo,jr 

|vv  corridor,  that 

goodness  knows 

h'etri's  valet,  but 
(never  heard  his 
|e  vehemently  he 

lan  the  one  who 
t»  a  pair  of  spec- 
■  her  directly  to 
[d  perseverance, 
true  character, 
and  had  tnini]). 
bring  back  the 

ay  police  on  the 

him.     When  I 

»e  morning,  and 

ter  if  there  was 
hat  it  was  time 
the  room  with 
raping  with  the 

'd  prayed;   'Q 
spring, 'and  [ 
1  corridor.     1 
I  then  went 
in  the  door  I 
'J">  and,  as  he 
as  afraid  that 
jan  to  think 

d  do  to  re- 
aper out  of 


his  pocket.  I  first  secured  the  door  of  the  narrow  corridor,  by  bolt- 
ing it  on  the  inside.  I  told  him  to  bring  me  the  step-ladder  and  a 
brush. 

"'Now,'  said  I,  'dust  the  cornices.  But  you  had  better  take  off 
your  coat,  or  you  will  get  it  covered  with  dust.'  He  instantly  obeyed, 
took  of  his  coat,  and  as  he  mounted  the  ladder,  I  opened  the  windows. 
After  I  did  so,  I  leaned  over  the  railing,  pulled  out  one  of  n^y  earrings, 
and  screamed  out :  '  O  Leon,  one  of  my  earrings  has  fallen.  Run 
and  get  it  for  me  as  quick  as  you  can.' 

"  In  an  instant  he  was  out  and  down  the  stairs.  But  this  time  I 
was  quick  as  he  was.  I  flew  to  the  door,  sprung  the  latch,  and 
bolted  myself  in.  I  then  ran  and  secured  all  the  windows.  By  this 
time  he  was  back  again,  trying  to  get  in.  I  carefully  took  the  paper 
from  his  coat-pocket  and  began  to  read  it, — and  what  do  you  think 
I  saw?" 

The  Marquis  replied  :  "  I  suppose  you  saw  your  own  confession, 
written  out  better  than  you  could  have  made  it  yourself."  Said  I : 
"  Precisely,  and  it  made  every  hair  of  my  head  stand  on  ''nd  ;  for  be- 
fore my  eyes,  I  saw  a  long  file  and  a  correct  inventory  ot  everything 
I  had  been  doing  for  the  past  week, — how  often  I  had  been  to 
church, — how  long  I  had  stood  before  the  glass, — who  supped  with 
me, — what  they  had  talked  about, — the  hour  they  came,  and  the  hour 
they  left, — whom  I  had  written  to,  and  what  I  had  written  about, 
and  who  had  written  to  me,  etc.  I  knew  by  that  that  he  must  be  in 
collusion  with  my  cook,  the  porter,  or  some  one  else  in  my  service, 
and  I  felt  the  most  uncomfortable  sensation  pass  over  me  that  I 
ever  experienced  in  my  life. 

"While  I  was  reading  this  document,  you  would  have  thought  that 
the  Abbey  was  bombarded,  by  his  efforts  to  get  in.  After  I  had  read 
the  paper,  I  put  it  back  into  the  coat-pocket,  just  as  I  had  found  it, 
and  then  went  softly  through  the  narrow  corridor  into  my  bedroom, 
and  began  singing.  I  continued  singing  until  I  reached  the  little  door, 
which  I  opened,  and  he  instantly  darted  by  me  into  the  library.  By 
the  time  I  got  in,  he  was  hugging  his  coat.  I  went  into  the  ante- 
chamber and  quickly  turned  back  the  latch,  then  came  back  and 
asked  him  what  they  were  doing  to  the  Abbey,  if  they  were  tearing 
down  a  partition;  for  I  had  gone  into  my  bedroom,  ard  it  was  im- 
possible to  pray  on  account  of  the  noise. 

"  '  Why,  Madam,'  he  exclaimed, '  it  was  I  trying  to  get  ii;.'  I  looked 


'  (:• 


»'  1 

Ifel 


m 


?  i 


•\ 


408 


BRAVING  A  SPY. 


at  him,  apparently  surprised.  Big  drops  of  perspiration  were  stand- 
ing  on  h'\&  face.  Said  I  :  '  Why  did  you  not  open  the  door  with  your 
key  ?'  'Because,'  said  he,  *  you  bolted  them  both.'  '  What,'  said  I, 
*/  bolted  t/iev!  /  as  though  I  ever  turned  a  key  or  shoved  a  bolt  in  my 
life.'     I  smiled  and  began  to  saunter  down  the  room. 

"  But  before  I  could  think,  he  rushed  to  the  door,  and  came  back 
looking  as  white  as  a  ghost.  '  But,'  said  he,  '  there  must  have  been 
sotne  one  else  in  here,  for  the  latch  is  all  right  now.  '  Oh,'  said  1, 
'  what  nonsense  !     You  only  imagined  it  was  down.' 

"  He  was  out  of  my  sight  again  in  an  instant,  rushed  into  the 
kitchen  to  ask  the  girls  if  they  had  seen  a  man  go  out,  then  to  the 
janitor.  He  came  back,  looked  behind  every  door,  into  every 
closet,  under  the  sofas,  into  boxes  that  a  cat  could  hardly  have 
crawled  into,  and  not  finding  his  man,  he  began  to  examine  the  car- 
pets, to  see  if  they  were  all  tacked  down,  then  the  wainscoting.  I 
pretended  to  pay  no  attention  to  him. 

"  1  treated  the  valet-detective  with  greater  confidence  than  ever ; 
for  I  felt  it  would  be  a  sorry  day  for  me  if  I  made  an  enemy  of  one 
of  those  fellows,  and  Machiavelli  taught  me,  years  before,  never  to 
make  a  man  an  enemy,  unless  1  had  the  power  to  crush  him,  or  had 
no  reason  to  feur  h\\\\.  I  knew  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  discharge  hiin, 
for  I J  hould  be  sure  to  have  another  in  his  place,  and  1  felt  that  1  had 
another  al "eady  in  the  house.  ,       . 

"One  cay  your  cousin,  the  Countess  de  Montalembert,  came  to  dine 
with  me.  I  told  her  to  be  careful  what  she  said,  for  my  house  was 
full  of  mouchards.  The  moment  we  sat  down  to  dine,  she  com- 
menced to  abuse  the  Empire  and  everybody  connected  with  it.  She 
said  that  she  had  a  perfect  horror  of  jierjurers,  and  that  Napoleon 
III.  was  the  chief  of  them ; — that  the  Empress  was  a  frivolous  co- 
(juette,  without  wit  or  common  sense ;  that  she  had  made  herself 
President  of  a  benevolent  fund,  and  that  everybotly  who  made  ap- 
plication received  the  same  uniform  answer,  '  Call  again  in  three 
months.'  After  starving  a  few  months  on  expectations,  they  would 
call  again,  but  only  to  receive  another  stereotyped  reply,  '  that  the 
funds  were  all  out.' 

"  It  frightened  me  to  hear  her  si)eak  so  unreservedly.  Slie  made 
me  feel  as  though  the  guillotine  were  loonnng  up  in  the  distance,  wait- 
ing for  one  of  our  heads.  1  interrupted  her  in  the  midst  of  her  invec- 
tives, hoping  to  put  a  stop  to  them,  and  asked  her  if  it  was  consistent 


THE   SPY   MADE   USEFUL, 


409 


|n  were  stand. 
[oor  with  your 
I^^iiat/saidl, 
|l  a  bolt  in  my 

\d  came  back 

fst  have  been 

'Oil,' said  1, 

Ished  into  the 
h  then  to  the 
f^,  into  every 
'  'lardly  have 
^'"ine  the  car- 
iinscotintr.     j 

Ice  than  ever; 
leneniy  of  one 
u'e,  never  to 
\  Jiiiu,  or  had 
^liscliarge  liim, 
ft^lt  that  I  Jiad 

I  came  to  dine 
iiy  house  was 
ne,  she  coni- 
^vitii  it.     Slie 
at  Napoleon 
frivolous  co- 
lade  herself 
10  made  ap- 
lin  in   three 
they  would 
y,  '  that  the 

She  made 
tance,  wait- 
flier  invcc- 
'  consistent 


with  Christian  charity  to  speak  that  way.     *  Certainly,'  she  replied. 
'Il  faut  trancher  le  mal'  {7i/e  must  strike  at  evil). 

"As  soon  as  I  thought  we  were  alone  I  asked  her  how  she  dared  to 
speak  in  that  way  of  the  P^niperor  and  Empress,  after  1  had  put  her 
on  her  g'"^rd.  '  Oh,'  she  replied,  '  I  should  be  rejoiced  to  have  them 
both  know  my  sentiments,  and  I  could  not  allow  so  good  an  oppor- 
tunity to  pass  of  letting  them  know  what  I  thought  of  them.' 

"  Her  audacity  and  cleverness  amused  me,  and  I  thought  it  was 
so  worthy  of  imitation,  that  I  was  inspired  to  do  likewise.  So  I  in- 
stantly converted  this  terrible  grievance  into  an  instrument  to  avenge 
old  wrongs,  and  new  ones,  as  fast  as  they  came. 

"  All  the  maids  of  honor  are  against  me.  Two  of  them  are  La- 
ferriere's  cousins,  and  they  have  taken  to  hating  me,  through  fear  that 
I  may  one  day  become  his  wife.  1  have  often  tried  to  get  soi  le  of  the 
chamberlains  to  repeat  to  the  Emperor  and  Empress  remarks  that  the 
maids  of  honor  had  made  about  them ;  for  they  are  always  attacking 
me,  and  saying  that  I  assume  a  position  which  I  have  no  right  to.  But 
now  let  me  hear  one  word  from  them,  and  I  cannot  sleep  until  I  get 
satisfaction.  I  give  a  dinner ;  but  instead  of  inviting  ladies  of  the 
Faubourg,  I  bring  together  a  lot  of  gossiping  disappointed  chevaliers, 
and  unfold  to  them,  in  the  presence  of  Pietri's  valet,'  what  I  have 
heard,  and  it  goes  straight  to  their  Majesties. 

"  I  keep  the  thing  up,  o.nd  I  am  playing  the  very  devil  among 
them.  Laferriere,  RoUin,  and  other  habitues  of  the  Palace,  come  to 
see  me,  and  talk  over  everything  that  occurs,  who  is  in  favor  and 
who  is  in  disgrace,  and  they  are  all  mystified  as  to  the  person  who 
strikes  these  blows ;  for  things  are  told  in  the  Palace  that  they 
thought  that  none  but  they  knew." 

The  Marquis  laughed  heartily,  for,  in  relating  this  to  him,  I  told 
him  the  names  of  the  persons  whose  heads  I  had  taken  off,  what  they 
had  done  to  me,  and  what  I  had  said  they  had  done  to  their  Majes- 
ties ;  and  I  admitted  that  I  had  never  been  over-scrupulous  about 
speaking  the  truth,  particularly  whenever  it  concerned  Laferri^re's 
daughter  or  the  rest  of  his  connections,  who  were  all  at  war  with  me. 

"But,"  said  I,  "  this  is  the  point  for  you  to  meditate  on.     If  you 

had  refused  my  request,  I  should  have  given  a  dinner  in  a  day  or  two, 

and  in  the  presence  of  my  indefatigable  Leon,  I  should  have  read 

Meurand's  accusations,  and  then  i)roduced  the  exequatur,  to  show  how 

business  was  done  at  the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs  ;  and  it  would 
18 


lis 


.V.  n 


! 


r   ' 


i 


il 

i: 

I'i 


t 


fij,fSf    ••Si 


410 


CHOICE   OF  DIRECTORS. 


have  been  easy  enough  for  nie  to  persuade  Laferri^re,  after  the 
reception  Meurand  gave  him,  that  it  was  his  duty  to  take  them  and 
show  them  to  the  Emperor.  But  I  should  have  first  let  the  intelli- 
gence reach  his  Majesty,  through  his  spies,  and  would  have  taken  pains 
to  add  that  if  we  went  to  Syria  the  probability  was  we  would  be  able 
to  disprove  the  other  charges."  I  again  rose  to  go,  when  the  Mar- 
quis detained  me  once  more  by  asking  me  :  "  Jiut  how  is  it.  Madam, 
that  you  can  be  a  Sister  of  Charity  in  the  morning  and  a  Nemesis  in 
the  afternoon  ?  I  should  think  that  two  such  opposite  characters 
would  breed  serious  discord  in  the  same  bosom."  "  Oh,"  I  replied, 
"  they  agree  admirably  in  me ;  but  I  never  avenged  wrongs  until  I 
became  a  Christian."  This  made  him  laugh  still  more.  "  Why,"  said 
he,  "that  does  not  seem  evangelical."  "Well,"  I  said,  "I  wish  I 
had  only  the  mischief  I  do  my  enemies  to  reproach  myself  with." 

Said  he  :  "I  would  Hke  to  be  your  director."  "  Oh,  no,"  I  replied, 
laughing ;  "  we  would  quarrel  if  you  were.  But  you  don't  suppose  that 
I  ever  confess  those  things,  do  you  ?  I  lay  them  all  to  the  govern- 
ment ;  for  what  business  has  it  dogging  me  like  a  felon,  when  I  am 
leading  the  life  of  a  saint  ?  " 

"  J  always  admire^-  an  enlightened  piety,"  said  he,  "  and  I  really 
think  that  you  ought  to  choose  me  for  your  director."  "  If  all  I  have 
heard  about  you,"  I  answered,  "  be  true,  I  am  afraid  that  your  direction 
would  lead  me  the  contrary  road  to  that  which  goes  to  Heaven.  The 
Viscount  de  Laferri^re  is  my  director.  He  makes  me  listen  to  him. 
But  I  never  do  as  he  tells  me :  if  I  did,  I  should  have  presented  my- 
self before  your  Excellency,  attired  in  a  neat  little  gray  costume,  a 
plain  hat,  and  a  little  black  lace  veil,  and  should  have  been  very  re- 
served;  for  such  were  his  directions." 

"  Afon  Dieu,  Madam  !  "  exclaimed  the  Marquis,  "  the  Viscount  is 
jealous,  and  it  is  he  who  is  watching  you."  Here  we  both  looked  at 
the  clock.  It  was  just  half-past  one.  "  Goodness,  Madam  !  "  he 
continued :  "  we  are  both  lost,  if  he  ever  knows  that  we  have  been 
conversing  two  hours  and  a  half.  Tell  him  I  told  you  I  was  engaged 
in  council,  and  that  I  kept  you  waiting  two  hours."  With  those 
words,  he  conducted  me  to  the  door  of  the  ante-chamber  ;  and  iiold- 
ing  up  the  papers,  he  said  :  "  An  revoir,  and  1  hope  the  next  time  we 
meet,  I  shall  have  fully  satisfied  your  pity  and  your  revenge." 

When  Laferri^re  called  on  me  that  afternoon  my  conscience  smote 
me  for  having  disregaided  his  counsels.     He  noticed  my  dejected  ap- 


SELF-REPROACH. 


411 


.earance  and  attritafed  .  at  '"2X::^:^Z  waiting  two  hout. 

"peatedtl,eMarcitn.Me.scntl^a--^^^ 
ll,  ,ad  taken  tlte  ,«!«-  win  it  1  h  ^^.  ^  ^  ^j^^,. .^^^  ..  ,  ,,t 

llould  give  them  his  immediate  ^i"^"""  ;„  ^baWy  receive 

rr^oiiwiiievetiieai- 

,  line  from  Meurand,  that  tne  1.  .    (_;i,j|-|,y. 

:  ^^es   „  eonvett  its  calling  to  ''-'     J*"  f,   ,;itisti„is.  but  of  him, 

^ftold  him  that  1  had  not  ^-^  ™   ^  ,:„,ed,  for  a«  h,.  kindne... 
because  I  did  not  treat  him  a.  w  ell  as^  _  ^^^^„^^„  yo,„,df 

.What  have   you  been  doinb^.o^  ^^^  J^^^^^  ^^,„^  „„  advice 
with?"  he  inquired.     Saici  1. 

.hich  1  never  follow."  .  „  ;f  you  did.      1  hey 

"  "why,"  he  replied,  "  yo«  wo«U  not  be  a  ^_  ^^^^^  ^^  ^^  ^.^^^,, 

„e  all  alike  1  they  "-"  f  «!"  be  o  e  they  die.  Don't  reproach 
others,  until  inst  about  =«"  f  f^^^;',„„,  J,.,,.  I  don't  hold  you 
yourself  for  anything  ^  f  ^^^J,;  ,beer  up,  and  let  me  see  ou 
'^sponsible  for  your  lanlts.      Co  «;  ^^  _^_^  ^^^^^  ^_^^^, 

Jle  again."     But  '"^'-d  "^ -f ;8'^^^^„|„g  „,y,elf  in  earnest  bu^ 
Giustinis. 


(.1 


■.^  t 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

ELIZA   AMORE. 

.  tn  the  Pantheon  and  made  my  usual 
;S. "-  '-  -  «;  ::;htl^r SisCan«ei.te  the 

-ir;:a*:t:t;^----^"^'^'"^^'T 
3ef^-f:^e^:;:5rxrg3r^^^ 

ttr  having  several  ;"-  -^^'iiiia^iave  beLnie  of  m.  Sister 
„hat  the  catholics  really  are  !  Wha  _^^^^.  j  f^^j  ,bat  peace 

and  joy  await  mc. 


II 


^■i 


'M 


'f!^! 


i:1| 


1 


412 


THE  ENGLISH   GIRL  S   GRAVE. 


After  hearing  the  Sister's  story,  I  went  to  fhe  mother,  who  was 
standing  by  the  bed  where  her  daughter  had  died  ;  and,  thinking  to 
console  her,  I  repeated  to  her  what  the  Sister  had  just  said  to  nic. 
"What,"  she  exclaimed,  "my  daughter  died  a  Roman  Catholic  !  0 
mercy  ! "  and,  for  a  moment,  she  appeared  more  distracted  and  dis- 
tressed than  I  had  yet  seen  her. 

"  Well,"  she  continued,  "  I  would  never  dare  to  tell  her  father  that, 
or  he  would  curse  her,  even  in  her  grave."  Then  recollecting  that  1 
was  a  Roman  Catholic,  she  became  more  distracted  than  ever ;  l)ut, 
this  time,  her  face  reddened  with  confusion,  and,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  say,  she  remarked :  "I  know  that  they  are  fio/  all  bad."  It  could 
easily  be  seen  that  the  thought  of  her  daughter  dying  a  Roman  Catholic, 
distressed  her,  perhai)s,  more  than  did  her  sinful  life,  and  that  she 
looked  upon  her  dying  in  that  faith  as  the  climax  of  the  infamy  which 
her  waywardness  had  heaped  upon  her  family. 

One  of  the  hospital  attendants  conducted  us  to  the  cemetery.  The 
girl  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  Mont  Parnasse.  He  left  us  at  the 
graveyard  gate,  in  care  of  the  keeper,  who  promised  to  conduct  us 
to  the  sjjot,  where  the  bodies  had  been  interred,  that  came  from  the 
hospitals  the  previous  morning.  The  price  for  bur}  ing  a  body  at  the 
hospital  is  thirty  francs.  The  Sister  told  me  that  that  would  cover 
all  expenses ;  it  would  pay  for  the  coffin,  shroud,  grave,  hearse,  and 
services. 

1  supposed  that  this  meant  one  single  grave,  and  I  expected  that 
the  man  would  lead  us  to  a  newly-made  grave  marked  by  a  black 
wooden  cross  with  white  lettering.  We  passed  by  a  line  of  what 
appeared  to  me  to  be  a  wide,  low,  black  hedge-fence.  I  did  not  pay 
attention  to  it,  for  I  was  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  my 
companion. 

At  last  the  man  stopped,  and  said  :  "  Here  it  is,  madam."  I 
looked  down,  and  seeing  myself  standing  close  to  one  of  these  extra- 
ordinary looking  fences,  I  called  out  to  the  man,  who  had  already 
taken  his  departure  :  "  You  are  mistaken,  there  is  no  grave  here." 
Then  throwing  a  glance  about  me,  I  nearly  fainted.  I  had  mistaken 
for  a  broad,  low,  black  fence,  innumerable  little  black  crosses,  about 
two  feet  high,  which  were  closely  knitted  together,  each  one  bearing 
a  diftVront  name.  There  were  at  least  twenty  clustered  around  the 
one  I  was  looking  for. 

The  English  lady,  not  understanding   French,  was  not  yet  con- 


THE  HATED  NAME. 


4IJ 


not  yet  con- 


le,>ndlooki.g».Wlyabo«  me  att  ^^^  ^^^^  ^.^^^^  ^,^^  ^^     , 

a„J  1  tokl  hm>  to  do  >.o,  -  «  jj^^  b,,^  ^as  turned  .0  the 

a„„,her  direction.        call  d  V^    a^  __^^  ^^^^  ^„  ,,,       ve- 

•rave      I  bega"  "*'"»         ,    ' ,    ,  ,  -.Ide  the  crosses  in  the  newly. 
C;  of  tlte^  n,an,  «ltc     ^J^XSt  cross  stood  alone  in  tl. 
,„.de  earth,  and  "'-S-^^    ^^'^        „™d  i,,  had  the  a,n.ea.a"c    o^ 
centre,  while  the  others,  "*^^^;  ^„^  ,,o„a  before  ,..  and  asked 

an  impenetrable  hedge.     I  then    e  ^^^^    ^^  j,,^j  ,„,  jady 

,0  which  they  belonged  i,„;,a,ie.ttly  waiting  for  the  ,nan  to 

The  lady,  who  was  all  tins    nne  •    1  ^,^^_^  ,,„  ,y     aca- 

proceed,  approached  «s,  and  wa  go mg    J  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ,h 

Intally  fell  on  *e  «oss        tmg^l^r^  J^^^  ,^^^_     _^  M 

side  of  the  name  of  the  man  ^^^^^^      ^h  strengoi 

eotal  her  emotion,  as  her  eye       ''   »       .^  ,,,,,„.„„  <Ue  greatest 
Sed  to  forsake  her  for  an  "«j!;;;,^„  ,,„„  to  my  assistance, 
r^n  that  I  could  -.»-;;--'   tta,:::g  from  us,  and  speakmg 
Presently  her  strength  teturneO,  an  ^^^^  exclaimed  . 

«;:;  maniac,  who  had  just  "me  o„  o'  ^  ^^  J_^  ^^^^^  ;,„.;  ,  ^er." 
"\.Whydidyouburyherby  ha.na^,,e?  ^^^^^^  ,„e  wotdd  have 
c„  savi--,  she  sprang  toward,  the  cio  s  ^^_^  prevented 

SS  i.rand  have  hidden  U  m  *    -*-^  ^^,,„e,  „  bid  her  de. 
from  reaching  it  by  *e°*-:,  ""',„' fruitless  efforts  to  grasp  .t  si  e 
anee,    'Ihen,  „s  if  "'f  ^"f  ^''it„t  look,  pointing  .0  the  cro»s, 

;x:r .  ";rf- j .---.' :,.-  ^  -  - 

.If  he  sinned,"  1  replied,      h^  ^^    ^^^  ^er  to  pray. 

,      V/     t.ia   us   before    she    died,  that   n  b  ^  ^nd 


!  ; .. 


I 


414 


ONE  OF  THE   "  FORTUNATE. 


Catholic  prayers.  After  enticing  her  away  from  school,  and  ruining 
her,  he  tried  to  make  her  a  Roman  Catholic,  so  that  slie  could  do 
what  she  liked  without  fear  of  (iod ;  for  all  she  would  have  to  do 
then,  would  be  to  go  to  a  i^riest,  a  man,  and  be  forgiven." 

The  very  blood  boiled  in  my  veins  as  she  made  this  assertion  ;  but 
I  pitied  her  so  much  that  1  made  no  reply.  She  continued  :  "  We 
caught  her  once  witn  a  string  of  Catholic  beads,  with  a  cross  at  the 
end.  He  gave  it  to  her.  She  used  to  wear  it  around  her  neck  uniier 
her  dress." 

Here,  turning  to  the  grave,  the  mother  exclaimed:  "What  a 
strange-looking  grave  !  how  large  and  disi)roportioned  !  Why  did 
they  fence  it  in  with  these  clumsy  black  sticks?  "  As  she  said  these 
words,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  names  that  were  written  on  them,  and  as 
the  truth  flashed  over  her  mind,  she  uttered  a  shriek. 

"  What ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  is  she  buried  here  with  so  many 
others  ?  " — and  throwing  upon  me  a  reproachful  look,  she  said :  "  You 
told  me  that  you  had  paid  for  a  grave."  Said  I :  "  I  did ;  and  I 
supposed  that  she  would  be  buried  by  herself.  All  this  appears  as 
horrible  to  me  as  it  does  to  you." 

1  then  questioned  the  grave-digger,  who  had  already  begun  to  dig 
another  trench.  He  told  me  that  that  was  the  way  they  always  buried 
those  who  were  brougiit  from  the  hospitals,  and  had  been  baptized  ; 
that  they  dug  a  deep  ditch  and  buried  them  all  together.  Said  I  : 
"  How  many  are  there  here  ? "  and  I  began  counting  the  crosses. 
"  Humph  !  "  said  the  man  :  "  you  cannot  calculate  by  them  ;  for  there 
are  a  great  many  buried  there  who  had  not  money  enough  to  pay 
for  across." 

I  was  chilled  with  horror,  when  I  reflected  that,  at  the  hospital, 
those  who  had  money  enough  to  bury  them,  or  who  had  found  some 
sympathizing  soul  that  would  promise  to  fulfil  for  them  this  last 
ofiice,  were  called  the  fortunate  ones ;  and  the  unfortunates  were 
those  who  had  not  one  single  dime  or  a  friend,  and  whose  bodies  were 
destined  to  pass  through  the  dissecting-rooms.  I  then  remembered 
that  I  had  not  had  any  particular  mark  put  on  the  cofiin,  as  I  sup- 
posed that  the  cross  would  be  sufficient  to  find  the  body,  any  time  it 
might  be  called  for. 

As  1  was  making  this  reflection  the  mother  began  to  consult  with 
me,  about  the  means  to  be  taken  to  obtain  the  body.  I  was  obliged 
to  tell  her  the  trudi,  that  all  the  cofiins  were  alike  and  that  there  might 


^   OKAVE-DIGGKR'S  SVMPA'niV. 


41 S 


.  that  theyniignt  be  , 

he  thirty  bodies  taried  in  *=  ^""f£7„ey  could  tl«l  the  ^8"' 
„  ,lS  to  open  n,ost  of  the  comn  b  fore  y  ^^^  ^^.^^^  .^  „, 
„         This  difScnlty  did  not  ''«"< 'o  det.   h  ._^  ^^^  __^.j^^  „, 

Mention  of  having  >>«  daughter  h-^^^^^^^^^^         ^,_^„^^,,  ,,  ,,„„,h 
eUberation,  the  "V-'™  o"-  ^  ^,,„,  every.inng  in  her  nnn 
a  thought  had  occurred  to  her,  vn  ^__^  ^^^,  where  she  ts  , 

he  shook  her  head  arrd  then  ^^^2^0^,,,^^^  »  ^^  " "«<' '"  Z 
c     ;u,  would  never  permit  a  Komau  instantly 

our  fannly  woukl  I       ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^,^^,^6       And  s 

burial  ground.     I  will  n  ^^     ^^^^^g^^  of  her  aa  g 

withdrew  from  the  spot,  as  t^ougn  ^^^^  ^^^^  g^^^g. 

V  ng  died  a  Roman  Catholic,  made    er  shr  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  „, 

-^^^^^ntartrtiroverr:  for  it  was  necessary  to  have  a 

'  By  his  time  I  was  -^^-^^^^^^^^J'^  ,,ve  the  body  removed,  be^ 
,,e  Ln  I  told  t^-;^^^\trbtptd  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  had 
cause  her  daughter  had  been  oai  ^^^^  ^.^^ 

received  the  sacraments  of  the  church  be  o  ^^  ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^^ 

""well,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  ^^H;- ^ /the  woman  is  a  heretic, 
the  body  that  the  mother  re  used  «  «  ^^'  .  consecrated  ground,- 
t  wUl'never  let  her  have  t^^^  ^^  ^^ed  in  the  old  man's  eyes^ 
:,  /.  pauvre  enfant !  "  --and  th    te^s  s  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^ 

I  called  the  woman  back,  and  to^  h  ^^^^^^^^  ^ 

thing  to  the  old  grave-digger.        Why  ^^^^^^^^^^  ^^^   ^,,,e 

don!  for  us?     I  gave  the  "^^n  a  shiU^^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^  ,,,3    t 

X''-idI;''butthisonehadone-     ^^       ^^^^^^ 
^  A  \  tear  for  your  daughter,  at  the  very         5  ^^^  ^^^^^^  „^^ 

each  other  in  Christ."     As  I  repeated  ^^^^^^^^  .„,^  ^^  feee, 

"id  to  me,  and  what  I  had  rep^^^ed,  he  ,00  ^^^ 

-Vf  H^t^lCveX— '^''--  -*  '-"  "''"  "^ 
Trelnme  his  task.  ^,„  j  had  said.    I  found  m 

His  last  words  made  me  retlec 

„y  words  a  deeper  ^-^^^-^Xli^^^  »  *'^  """'"'^  ""' 
insteadof  stopping  to  pass  juig 


:V" 


'1 


4i6 


STURDY   BEGCARS. 


let  this  be  a  lesson  to  those  wlio  profess  to  be  Roman  Catholics,  that 
their  sins  may  not  bring  clown  such  odium  and  hatred  upon  their  re- 
ligion as  to  make  those  who  are  ignorant  of  its  truths  shudder  at  its 
very  name. 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

THE   TRIUMPH    OF   A    MOTHER'S    FAITH. 

That  same  Friday  afternoon  General  RoUin  and  Laferrifire  called. 
I.aferridre  told  Rollin  of  tlie  Giustini  affair. 

"Well,"  said  Rollin,  "she  will  have  this  satisfaction  if  she  does  get 
them  home,  that  they  Avill  not  be  able  to  return  and  ask  her  to  do 
them  the  same  favor  again." 

"  Ah,"  answered  I.aferriere,  "  tliat  is  the  plague  of  obliging  any 
one." 

Laferriere  had  a  fund  attached  to  his  appointment,  which  he  had 
the  privilege  of  distributing  among  the  poor,  in  the  name  of  the 
Emperor,  as  he  saw  fit.  Said  the  General :  "  I  would  not  accept 
your  position  for  all  France  unless  the  Emperor  would  transfer  that 
fund  to  somebody  else.  If  I  were  in  your  place  I  would  keep  a  g. 
rison  at  the  door  to  fire  on  every  one  who  came  saying,  '  Monsieur, 
you  assisted  me  on  a  former  occasion,  and  I  take  the  liberty  to  apply 
to  you  again.'  Assist  them  twice,  and  this  time  they  leave  their  ad- 
dress, and  if  they  need  you  again  they  present  themselves  with  a 
haughty  air  of  command  and  ask  you  to  serve  them,  in  a  tone  which 
is  as  much  as  a  reproach  for  having  given  them  the  trouble  to  call. 
They  expect  you  to  send  it  to  them,  and  if  you  refuse  them  this 
fourth  time  they  will  curse  you  to  your  face,  abuse  you  behind  your 
back,  sue  you  and  swear  that  they  have  a  claim  against  you,  and  that 
you  have  been  paying  them  off  by  instalments.  Whenever  I  want  to 
relieve  the  poor,"  continued  the  General,  "  I  do  it  so  that  they  will 
never  find  out  where  it  comes  from  ;  it  is  one  of  the  precepts  of  the 
gospel  that  I  most  adhere  to.  Our  Lord  must  have  understood  that 
kind  of  fellows  pretty  well,  when  He  put  us  on  our  guard  against 
them,  in  that  passage  of  the  gospel  where  He  says,  '  Never  let  your 
right  hand  know  what  your  left  hand  does.'  " 


Catholics,  that 
upon  tht'ir  le- 
shuddcr  at  its 


Terri^re  called. 

f  she  does  get 
ask  her  to  do 

obliging  any 

which  he  had 

name  of  the 
i  not  accept 

transfer  that 
J  keep  a  gar- 
>  'Monsieur, 
-rty  to  apply 
ive  their  ad- 
^Ives  with  a 

tone  which 
I>le  to  call, 
i  them  this 
Jehind  your 
".  and  that 
"  I  want  to 
t  they  will 
-pts  of  the 
itood  that 
■d  against 
r  let  your 


THE  VISCOUNT  AVENGED. 


417 


The  Generars  remark  created  no  little  amusement  and  laughter,  in 
the  midst  of  which  an  attache  of  the  consular  department  entered, 
and  said  :  "  Madam,  his  Kxccllence,  Monsieur  le  Manjuis  de  Moustier, 
has  ordered  me  to  say  to  you  that  he  has  granted  your  rcfiuest,  and 
has  given  orders  that  Mons.  (liustini  and  his  family  should  be  sent 
back  to  Syria  at  the  exi)ense  of  the  government." 

Laferrifire  could  not  conceal  his  astonishment  and  delight  at  the 
discomfiture  of  Meurand,  and  exclaimed,  "  And  that  Cretin,  Meu- 
rand,  what  has  he  to  say  ?"  "I  left  him  foaming  with  rage,"  replied 
the  young  man;  "for  the  Minister  had  made  him  atTirm  several 
times  an  accusation  against  (iiustini,  and  after  he  had  done  so,  his 
Excellence,  in  the  presence  of  several  gentlemen,  handed  him  a  paper 
to  prove  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  had  accused  the  Syrian 
ex-consul  unjustly." 

"  His  Excellence,"  1  remarked,  "stole  that  from  me,  for  that  is  the 
way  I  caught  hiin.^'  And  I  then  related  part  of  my  interview  with 
the  Marcjuis. 

The  young  man  then  took  his  dei)arture,  and  the  Viscount  and 
the  General  loaded  me  down  with  praises  and  compliments  for  my 
perseverance  and  tact.  When  they  rose  to  leave,  and  had  already 
reached  the  door,  the  Viscount  turned  towards  me,  and  making  me 
a  most  courteous  bow,  said  :  "  If  ever  I  need  an  appointment,  Mad- 
am, I  shall  apply  to  you." 

The  Viscount  let  the  General  pass  before  him  and  descend  the 
stairs,  while  he  lingered  behind,  to  speak  a  few  words  to  me,  at  the 
door  of  the  antechamber.  His  face  assumed  a  serious  expression, 
as  he  said  to  me,  in  an  affectionate  but  earnest  tone:  "My  dear 
child,  promise  me,  in  the  name  of  the  love  I  bear  you,  that  you  will 
never  return  to  the  Minister  of  Eoreign  Affairs,  to  'lank  him  for  his 
kindness.  You  only  need  to  write  him  a  formal  e.  I  will  dictate 
it  for  you."  "  Oh,  no,  no,"  I  quickly  replieJ  ;  *  I  prefer  dictat- 
ing my  own  notes."  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  write  whatever  you  choose  ; 
but  never  call  on  him,  and  never  receive  him,  if  he  calls  on  ycu. 
1  fear  the  perils  of  gratitude," — or,  to  i)ut  the  words  in  his  spicy 
French, — '■'•  je  crains  la  reconnaissaticeP  He  then  said:  '■' A  bien- 
tot ;^^  and  quickly  descended  the  stairs.  But  I  called  him  back,  and 
said  to  him  : — "  Well,  you  and  the  General  are  moralists  worthy  of 
attention.  The  first  thing  you  did,  when  you  came,  was  to  rail  and 
abuse  the  poor,  for  their  pride  and   ingratitude  ;  and  the  .ast   thing 


I' 


,; 


» t 


I!  ; ' 


*■?: 


4i8 


FAITH   AND   GALLANTRY. 


you  enjoin  upon  me,  when  you  leave,  is,  to  appear  proud  and  un- 
grateful." "  rrecisely,"  he  quickly  rejoined ;  "  because  I  wish  to 
be  always  consistent ;  for  all  virtues  must  be  practised  with  discre- 
tion, otherwise  they  degenerate  into  vices." 

As  soon  as  I  entered  my  library,  I  wrote  a  note  to  the  Giustinis, 
announcing  my  success  with  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  then 
went  to  the  Pantheon.  When  1  reached  St.  Genevieve's  altar,  1  be- 
gan talking  to  our  Lord,  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  St.  Genevieve,  as 
though  I  were  speaking  to  thorn  face  to  face. 

Since  my  conversion,  there  have  been  intervals  when  my  mind  is 
so  freed  from  doubt,  that  the  objects  of  fiiith  are  to  it  a  living  reality. 
In  such  moments  I  will  converse  with  (iod,  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and 
the  Saints,  in  the  same  way  as  I  used  to  talk  with  the  chairs,  the  foot- 
stools, and  the  table  legs  when  I  was  called  "Tick,"  and  with  the 
shrubs,  the  rocks,  the  trees,  and  the  sun,  when  I  lived  in  the  High- 
lands of  Dutchess. 

That  evening  1  went  to  the  Opera  Comique.  Tvaferri^re  smiled  when 
he  saw  me,  and  said:  "We  did  not  expect  you  at  all.  We  expected 
tha^  you  would  stay  with  the  Syrians  all  night."  I  replied:  "Why 
should  they  thank  me  ?  1  did  nothing  for  them.  I  left  it  all  to  God  ard 
He  did  it."  His  face  brightened  as  he  said:  "That  is  the  true  spir- 
it. That  is  the  si)irit  of  (iod-  Always  render  the  glory  and  success 
to  Him.  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  you  speak  like  a  Chris- 
tian." 

The  next  day,  I  called  to  see  those  gentlemen  who  had  promised 
to  give  me  something  for  Ciiustini,  if  the  government  agreed  to  send 
him  home. 

I  called  on  the  old  man  of  reason  and  good  sense  first,  and  re- 
lated to  him  the  whole  affair.  In  the  midst  of  my  narration  he  inter- 
rupted me  and  said,  "  That  is  a  fact.  I  foigot  to  reckon  in  the  gallan- 
try of  the  Marquib  "  "  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  you  forgot  to  reckon  on  more 
than  that ;  for  you  did  not  give  Faith  its  full  value."  "  Well,"  he 
added,  "  I  will  rectify  my  mistake,  by  adding  what  I  subtracted  from 
it  to  the  Man[uis'  gallantry,  and  reason  will  deduce  from  it,  that  you 
owe  more  to  the  Ararc[uis  than  you  do  to  (iod." 

"  I  ask  you,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  who  made  the  gallant  Marquis  ?"  He 
answered  :  "God  made  him  ;  but  I  think  you  will  admit  iliat  you  owe 
more  to  the  devil,  for  the  Manpiis'  training,  than  you  do  to  God." 
"The  devil,"  said  I,  "can  du  nodiing  without  God's  permission.     If 


MY   "director's"   approval. 


419 


proud  and  un- 
pcause  I  wisl,  to 
psed  with   discre- 

fo  the   Giiistiiiis, 

Affairs,  and  thoii 

^J'^'s  altar,  I  be. 

5t.  Genevieve,  as 

^hen  my  mind  is 
a  living  rcahty. 

ised  Virgin,  and 

cJi.iirs,  the  foot- 

'"  and  with  tlie 
;d 


"1  the  High- 


iei-e  smiled  when 
^^^e  expected 
replied;  ''Why 

it  all  to  God  and 
IS  the  true  spir- 
^'y  and  success 
^  J'ke  a  Chris- 
had  promised 
agreed  to  send 

first,  and  re- 
ation  he  inter- 
'  '"thegallan- 
-ckon  on  more 
"U^'Il,"  he 
Infracted  from 
"  't,  that  you 

rquis?"  He 
''lat  you  owe 
tlo  to  God." 
'iiission.     If 


you  are  a  Roman  Catholic,  you  should  believe  the  same;  but  you  see 
that  reason  and  good  sense  are  leading  you  astray." 

He  then  sighed,  and  pretended  to  be  very  serious,  by  trying  to  as- 
sume an  earnest  expression,  as  he  continued :  "  The  Marquis  will 
never  know  how  much  he  is  responsible  for ;  for  your  success  will 
make  you  more  crazy  than  ever."  I  replied  :  "  If  you  call  an  increase  of 
faith,  and  putting  all  my  trust  in  God,  getting  more  crazy,  I  will  con- 
fess that  I  am  more  demented  than  ever.  Besides  my  director,  for 
the  first  time,  sanctioned  my  conduct.  He  told  me  that  I  was  right, 
that  1  should  always  render  all  the  glory  to  God."  "  Oh,"  exclaimed 
the  old  man,  "  Priest-cant !  "  Said  I :  "  There  was  no  priest  about  it ; 
for  the  first  chamberlain  of  the  Emperor  is  my  director."  "  What !  "  he 
exclaimed  with  astonishment,  "  the  Viscount  de  Laferri^re,  that  you 
are  sure  to  meet  every  night  in  the  coulisses  of  the  opera?"  "Pre- 
cisely," said  I;  "  and  he  is  better  than  all  the  priests ;  for  he  knows  as 
much  as  they  do,  although  he  has  not  the  strength  of  will,  nor  the 
courage,  to  practise  what  he  preaches.  Therefore  he  is  modest  about 
it,  and  will  point  out  to  you  your  defects,  and  tell  you  their  remedies 
without  scolding  and  frowning  like  a  Pharisee;  for  he  knows  how  it  is 
himself."  "  Well,  well,"  cried  out  the  old  man,  "  I  will  congratulate  the 
Viscount  upon  his  fair  penitent."  "  The  Viscount,"  I  replied,  "  will 
tell  you,  that  you  have  not  much  to  congratulate  him  for  on  that  score  : 
he  finds  me  furiously  unmanageable."  "  Madam,"  said  he  very  seri- 
ously, "  J  shall  not  accuse  reason  or  good  sense  for  leading  you  astray." 
Said  I  :  "  I.aferriere  wonkl  irll  you  that  it  would  be  a  libel  on  both,  if 
you  did,  for  I  have  neither  ;  but  that  those  are  your  defects, — and  that 
mine  are  a  fondness  for  pleasure  and  for  having  my  own  way."  "  Mad- 
am," he  replied,  "  I  easily  divined  them  ;  since  you  have  been  taught 
by  a  Bishop  our  religion  so  thoroughly,  and  you  afterwards  chose  a 
courtier  instead  of  a  priest  to  be  your  director." 


CHAPTER   LXXXni. 

RKMORSE    OK    RKNEGAPE    NUNS. — THE    HEARTI,ESSNESS    OF   THE    POOR 
FOR   THEIR    FALLEN    SISTERS. 

Mv  rescue  of  the  Giustini  family  and  victory  over  Meurand  were 
bruited  about,  and  gave  me  that  importance  which  I  had  so  long 
coveted ;  but  I  found  it  a  never-ending  cause  of  weariness  and  an- 


■i.P 


■{' 


5 


420 


CLINICAL   STUDIES. 


if. 


'  :': 


noyance.  I  never  let  anything  interfere  with  uiy  morning  visits  to 
the  hospitals.  I  went  there  to  study  and  reflect.  I  would  leara 
more  at  the  hospital  in  one  hour,  listening  to  the  simple  stories  of 
its  unfortunate  inmates,  than  I  could  in  a  whole  year  in  the  flash  of 
the  world.  Standing  by  the  bedsides  of  suffering  souls,  whose  life 
was  stripped  of  all  illusions,  I  learned  the  value  of  a  sympathizing 
look,  of  an  encouraging  word,  and  the  untold  value  of  a  slight  caress. 
Patients  would  implore  me,  with  streaming  eyes,  to  come  and  stand 
by  them,  when  they  were  about  to  undergo  some  painful  operation. 
A  sliglit  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  sympathizing  look,  a  fond  word,  or  a 
hand  gently  passed  over  their  foreheads,  seemed  to  take  away  half 
their  agony. 

From  the  Sisters  of  (Charity  I  learned  to  control  myself  in  these 
scenes.  At  first  I  would  become  faint  with  pity,  but  tliey  taught  me 
to  master  my  feelings  in  the  presence  of  suffering.  One  day  I  was 
standing  by  the  sick-bed  of  a  young  woman,  who  could  not  have 
been  thirty.  She  noticed  a  little  medal  of  St.  Benedict,  which  I  wore 
around  my  neck,  and  reaching  out  her  band  towards  it,  she  begged 
of  me  to  let  her  kiss  it.  She  then  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it.  I 
told  her  that  the  Mother -General  of  the  ladies  of  .the  Holy  Family 
had  given  it  to  mc.  I  had  hardly  spoken  those  words,  when  shj 
buried  her  face  in  her  pillow,  and  fell  to  sobbing  and  wce[)ing.  I 
asked  her  to  tell  me  what  there  was  about  that  medal,  and  the  name 
of  the  Holy  Family,  that  affected  her.  I  remained  beside  her  at 
least  half  an  hour,  imploring  her  to  soeak  ;  but  the  only  reply  that  I 
could  obtain,  through  her  sobbing,  was,  "  Don't  ask  me."  1  was 
most  curious  to  know  her  secret,  and  the  next  morning  I  repaired  at 
once  to  her  bed. 

She  at  first  refused  to  answer  my  question,  and  said  :  "  You  are  so 
intimate  with  the  Sisters,  that  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you,  lest  you  should 
betray  me  ;  because  they  all  love  me,  and  are  so  good  to  me,  and 
they  would  have  a  horror  of  me  if  they  knew  what  I  have  done." 

I  promised  her  faithfully  that  I  would  be  a  true  friend  to  her,  if 
she  would  only  tell  me  the  truth,  and  wliat  there  was  between  her 
and  the  ladies  of  the  Holy  Family. 

Slie  then  told  me  that  she  had  been  a  religious  in  that  society  for 
four  years,  at  their  Novitiate  in  Bordeaux  ;  tliat  lier  mother  was  op- 
posed to  her  entering,  and  was  constantly  coming  to  the  convent, 
and  importuning  her  to  leave.     During  the  four  years,  she  had  been 


ESCAPED   NUNS. 


421 


|orning  visits  to 
^  would  leanr 
|"ple  stories  of 
J"  the  flash  of 
'Ills,  Avhose  h'fe 
|a  sympathizing 
|a  slight  caress. 
""e  and  stand 
Inful  operatioji. 
'lid  word,  or  a 
Jake  away  half 

yself  in  these 
ley  tauglu  me 
>ne  day  I  was 
"Ifl  not  have 
which  I  wore 

it>  she  begged 

line  by  it.     [ 
Holy  Family 

's,  when  shj 
weeping.     [ 

^"d  thii  name 

•eside  her  at 
reply  that  I 

"e."     I  was 

f  repaired  at 

'  Vou  are  so 
you  should 
to  Jiio,  and 
clone." 
'  to  her,  if 
-'tween  her 

society  for 
?r  was  op- 
convent, 
had  been 


ill  a  part  of  the  time,  and  the  nuns  took  the  tenderest  care  of  her. 
But  her  mother  at  last  triumphed  over  her  resistance,  and  she  re- 
solved to  leave.  No  sooner  was  she  out  of  the  convent  than  she 
became  intensely  miserable.  Her  mother  died  in  less  than  a  year. 
She  applied  to  be  received  by  the  religious  again  ;  but  they  refused 
to  take  her  back.  One  misfortune  succeeded  another,  until  she  was 
reduced  to  beggary,  and  her  health  being  poor,  she  had  been  staying 
at  the  hospital,  off  and  on,  now  for  over  a  year. 

I  listened  to  her  story  with  the  deepest  interest,  and  was  delighted 
that  Providence  should  have  throwil  the  \)oor  creature  in  my  path. 
For  since  I  had  left  St.  Mande,  many  and  many  a  hater  of  Caiholi- 
city  had  said  to  me,  "They  took  good  care  to  hide  their  deviltry  from 
you ; "  and  as  I  had  always  been  deceived,  and  was  easily  given  to 
suspect,  I  would  have  to  struggle  with  myself,  not  to  be  influenced  by 
these  foes  of  the  conventual  life.  I  was  determined  to  be  convinced 
of  the  truth,  if  there  was  anything  wrong  about  the  nuns,  or  to  silence 
forever  any  suspicions  that  ignorant,  prejudiced  souls  might  hence- 
forth try  to  resuscitate  in  my  mind.  I  began  (piestioning  this  lady  in 
a  way  that  would  induce  her  to  speak  ill  of  the  religious,  if  any  ill 
could  be  said.  But  whenever  I  insinuated  the  slightest  thing  against 
them,  it  would  wound  her,  as  though  I  were  abusing  a  beloved  spouse 
whom  she  had  abandoned,  and  who  now  refused  to  take  her  back 
to  his  bwsom.  She  reproached  only  herself,  and  saw  the  smiting 
hand  of  God  in  all  that  she  had  suffered  and  still  suffered.  I  asked 
why  she  dreaded  to  have  the  Sisters  know  her  story,  "  Oh,"  she 
replied,  "  I  never  want  them  to  know  what  brought  me  to  this.  I  com- 
mitted a  serio'.is  offence  in  giving  up  my  vocation."  Her  heart  was  rent 
with  remorse  ;  but  at  that  time  I  could  not  appreciate  her  scruples. 

I  met  two  other  religious,  who  had  made  their  novitiate  in  other 
cor  ents.  One  of  them  had  been  sent  away,  and  the  other  had  left  of 
her  own  accord.  Or>e's  account  was  that  a  relative  came,  and  incited 
her  to  rebel  against  the  rules,  and  she  was  dismissed.  The  other 
had  been  enticed  to  leave.  The  manifestations  of  remorse  and  re- 
pentance were  exactly  alike. 

T  ,'as  present  at  the  death  of  one  of  these.  Her  last  words:  "  For- 
give me,  beloved  Jesus,  for  having  abandoned  Thy  house,"  rang 
through  my  heart.  As  I  heard  those  words,  I  sank  on  my  knees,  and 
asked  God  to  forgive  me,  for  ever  having  doubted  the  holiness  that 
existed  in  religious  life. 


h-    I  '■ 


\   i 


422 


THE   "  VIRTUI  S       OF  PAUPERS. 


I  have  often  felt  since  then  tliat  God  had  His  designs  in  throwing 
these  three  repenting  souls  in  my  path ;  for  they  have  armed  my 
weakness  forever  against  any  suspicions  in  regard  to  cloister-life. 

I-istening  to  the  regrets  and  prayers  of  these  repentant  souls,  I 
felt  the  full  enormity  of  my  niother's  fault  ;  and  I  often  knelt  at  their 
bedsides,  and  implored  God  to  inspire  me  what  to  do,  that  I  might 
atone  for  her  sin.  I  prayed  Him  to  let  me  undo  the  wrongs  that  my 
mother  had  done,  and  1  would  offer  myself  up  to  God,  and  implore 
,  Him  to  do  with  me  what  He  would.  These  offerings  always  brought 
l)eace  to  my  soul — 1  felt  tint  God  was  there  to  answer  my  pra)er 
and  to  accept  my  sacrifice. 

Not  only  did  1  learn  in  the  Hospital  to  feel  the  enormity  of  my 
mother's  fault,  but  also  to  have  charity  and  compassion  for  her.  It 
was  then,  and  only  then,  that  I  could  feel  how  much  more  deserving 
of  pity  than  of  reproach  the  was. 

If  the  world  wants  to  see  the  culmination  of  pride,  intolerance,  dis- 
dain, and  hate,  let  it  mingle  with  the  paupers  who  frequent  the  first- 
r'-'c  public  hospitals  and  poor-houses.  I  have  seen  them  torture  the 
very  life  out  of  poor  girls,  whom  they  suspected  of  having  been  the 
victims  of  some  libertine. 

I  knew  one  unfortunate  creature  who  left  the  hospital  so  ill  that 
she  could  hardly  drag  herself  away,  choosing  to  risk  dying  alone  in 
the  streets,  rather  than  endure  any  longer  the  disdainful  looks  and 
contemptuous  sn.i'^s  of  those  around  her.  No  one  would  speak  to 
her,  except  to  insult  her.  She  dared  not  approach  any  one  ;  but 
they  would  all  abuse  her  among  themselves,  and  not  fail  to  let  her 
know  it  by  their  .side-glances  and  leers. 

It  was  while  studying  the  characters  and  manners  of  these  paupers, 
that  I  conceived  how  my  mother  sought  by  every  means  to  excuse 
herself,  and  to  throw  the  blame  of  her  own  conduct  on  others.  Ke- 
cause  females  who  have  erred,  and  who  cannot  conceal  their  guilt,  and 
are  possessed  of  one  grain  of  sensibihty,  can  suffer  no  greater  martyr- 
dom thill'  to  fall  beneath  the  censure  of  this  class,  which,  for  intoler- 
ance, ill-breeding,  insolence,  and  pride,  far  surpasses  even  a  first-class 
"  shoddy"  aristocracy. 

But  those  whom  "  shoddy  "  singles  out  as  targets  for  its  abuse  and 
scorn,  are  more  fortunate  than  their  penniless  rivals,  since  they  have 
tlie  means  to  tly,  and  to  cone-  al  themselves,  from  the  darts  of  their 
Pharisaical  persecutors.      Bui  for  the  pauper  there  is  no  escape  :  his 


Is. 

N'gns  in  throwing 
|y  Jiave  armed  my 
fo  cloister-lire. 
|--epentant  souls,  r 
[ften  knelt  at  tliei,- 
do,  that  I  might 
r  '^'■o»gs  that  my 
pod,  and  implore 
?s  always  brought 
answer  my  p,aver 

enormity  of  my 
'^lon  for  her.  Jt 
1  more  deserving 

» intolerance,  dis- 

equent  the  first- 

them  torture  the 

having  been  the 

^spital  so  ill  that 
k  <-¥ng  alone  in 
'linfiil  looks  and 
^voiild  speak  to 
1  any  one  ;  but 
3t  fail  to  let  her 

these  i)au])ers, 
eans  to  excuse 
1  others.  fjg- 
^heir  guile,  and 
:'t-'ater  martyr- 
'h,  for  intoler- 
en  a  first-class 

its  abuse  and 
ic(!  they  have 
Jarts  of  their 
•  escape :  his 


COMPARISONS. 


423 


indigence  dooms  him  to  stand  face  to  face  with  his  tormentors,  and 
receive  their  blows. 

And  what  blows  can  strike  deeper,  and  inflict  greater  pain  on  an 
erring  soul,  possessed  of  a  ])roud  and  sensitive  nature,  than  to  be 
obliged  to  live  in  the  midst  of  human  beings,  whose  looks,  words,  and 
gestures  are  filled  with  scorn  ami  disdain? 

Many  erring  and  unfortunate  females  are  willing  to  resort  to  any 
crime  in  order  to  esca|)e  falling  under  such  a  ban.  'J'hey  know  full 
well  the  trials  that  await  them  if  they  do. 

Jiy  mingling  with  this  class  I  learned  to  have  feelings  of  compas- 
sion and  sympathy  for  my  mother,  and  to  pity  while  I  condemned 
her.  She  was  proud  and  sensitive.  She  wished  to  make  herself  ap- 
]iear  the  helpless  victim  of  priestly  crime,  and  in  order  to  enlist  the 
sympathy  of  the  hospital  attendants,  she  inv<:nted  liei  'nip  obable 
story. 

All  these  scenes  would  bring  back  to  my  niird  my  own  erring 
days  ;  and  my  heart  would  rise  in  gratitude  to  God,  *  r  haviiig  spared 
me  what  seemed  to  be  the  common  lot  of  all  tho..  ■  v,  lO  ooirau  life  in 
the  same  way  that  I  did.  And  often  1  wouk'  mt'juy  exclaim,  when 
I  witnessed  scenes  that  would  make  my  blood  run  coM  •  "  O  God, 
why  didst  thou  spare  me?" — and  then  and  theie  1  would  make  a 
firm  resolve  that  the  future  shoi  d  atone  for  the  past. 

After  having  passed  the  morning  trying  to  console  the  poor,  I 
would  return  to  the  Abbey,  loathing  the  role  that  I  was  to  play  in  the 
afternoon.  For  those  morning  scenes  would  fill  my  mind  with  such 
serious  thoughts  and  gene  )us  resolves,  that  they  tended  every  day  to 
disgust  me  more  and  more  with  my  worldly  life. 

I  would  often  resolve  to  abandon  society  altogether,  and  devote 
all  my  time  to  good  works  ;  for  it  was  in  them  alone  that  I  found  any 
satisfaction,  liut  instantly  my  attachment  for  the  wculd's  opinion 
would  deter  me  from  executing  my  resolution  :  I  was  su  afraid  that 
the  world  would  say  that  my  reason  for  not  appearing  at  such  and  such 
rece[)tions,  was  tiiat  I  was  t  invited;  and  1  was  too  much  the  slave 
of  ojjinion  to  endure  that  thought. 

But  even  when  1  sought  to  fly  from  the  world,  the  more  the  world 
seemed  willing  to  throw  itself  at  my  feet.  This  but  surfeited  my 
vanity  and  my  pride,  while  it  left  my  heart  emi)ty.  I  would  often 
ask  myself,  when  I  was  mrking  such  sacrifices  to  opinion,  what  I  was 
living  for,  any  way ;  and  my  heart  always  had  its  answer  ready,  which 


>  J-  r 


'  11 


'  ''A 


ir 


424 


HEART   SICK. 


K»  n'' 


1  '^^''-.^ 


was  too  distinct  to  ever  deceive  me  ;  it  was  to  many  LaferiiSre.  To 
marry  Lafcrriere,  it  was  for  that  alone  that  1  lived.  I  was  even  more 
attached  to  him  then  than  I  had  ever  been  before,  and  that  dolorous 
feeling  of  disappointed  affection  increased  with  my  love. 

No  matter  whether  I  stood  by  the  bedside  of  some  i)enniless  out- 
cast, or  was  kneeling  before  (lod's  altar,  imploring  His  mercy  and 
protection,  or  in  a  palace,  surrounded  by  courtiers,  who  vied  in  show- 
ing me  attention,  that  feeling  of  disappointed  love,  like  a  cancer, 
was  eating  into  my  heart ;  and,  to  aggravate  it,  I.aferri^re  treated  me, 
every  day.  more  and  more  as  if  I  were  his  child. 

Towards  the  latter  [)art  of  November  my  health  began  to  fail. 
Everybody  was  finding  fault  with  me  for  giving  so  much  of  my  time 
an  J  strength  to  the  poor. 

One  day  I  received  the  following  letter  from  General  Dix  : 

"  Sunday,  November  22,  1868. 
"  My  Dear  Mr.s.  Eckki-  : 

"I  am  very  thankful  to  you  for  your  kindness,  in  sending  me  the 
ticket  for  Rossini's  obsequies.  The  services  were  very  interesting 
and  the  music  exquisite. 

*'  I  enclose  the  translations  of  the  Dies  Ine  and  Stabat  Mater. 
The  former  was  written  in  Virginia  during  the  war,  and  the  latter 
here.  As  they  arc  in  harmony  with  the  monastic  life  you  are  lead- 
ing I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  them. 

"  I  mean  to  call  and  see  you  at  the  convent,  but  you  are  so  run 
down  with  visitors,  and  works  of  charity,  that  it  is  next  to  impossible 
to  have  a  moment's  conversation  with  you. 

*'  Ever  sincerely  yours, 

"J,  A.  Dix." 


CHAPTER  I, XXXIV. 

THE    DREAM. — THE   WARNING. — WAS    IT  THK   VOICE   OF   GOD? 

It  was  the  ist  of  December,  r868.  Laferri^re  had  gone  to  Coni- 
pi^gne.  I  gave  myself  up  entirely  to  visiting  the  sick,  helping  the 
poor,  and  to  pray.  This  kind  of  life  I  continued  for  seven  days.  I 
liad  only  intended  to  prolong  it  three  days  at  farthest,  but  1  pleaded 


i.*ii»;ii-    I  -   ii 


A   PRAYER  AND   A   VISION. 


425 


I^aferi  i^re.     To 
I  was  even  more 
ifl  that  dolorous 
ve. 

e  IJenniless  out. 

HiH  mercy  and 
'10  vied  in  sJiow- 

like  a  cancer, 
i^re  treated  nie, 

began  to  fail. 
iicli  of  my  ti,„g 

•al  Dix  : 
emlicf  22,  1 868. 

ending  me  the 
"^^ry  interestinsr 

Stabat  Mater, 
'■^"cl   the   latter 
■  you  are  lead- 
yon  are  so  run 
:  to  impossible 

11  rs, 

r-  A.  Dix." 


OF   GOD? 

3ne  to  Corn- 
helping  the 
-n  days.     J 
If  J  pleaded 


with  God,  just  as  though  I  were  going  to  excess ;  and  the  last  four 
mornings  1  would  say  to  Him,  as  I  left  the  altar  :  "Only  one  day 
nioro,  and  then  I  will  stop." 

1  believe  it  was  the  seventh  evening,  on  the  seventh  day  of  the 
nionth,  that  I  entered  my  bed-room,  and  knelt  down  to  say  my  usual 
night-prayer. 

I  had  labored  hard  during  the  week,  and  had  passed  that  whole 
day  in  prayer.  I  was  so  exhausted  that  1  leaned  on  an  (Ottoman 
for  support,  and  looking  up  at  the  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  I 
said  to  her  :  "  You  ought  to  be  pleased  with  me  to-night,  for  you 
know  that  I  am  only  weary,  because  I  have  been  working  so  hard 
for  the  poor.  I  think  you  owe  me  something.  Now,  I  want  you  to 
tell  nie  what  to  do,  to  get  rid  of  this  aching  about  my  heart.  I  wish 
you  would  take  it  away.  Ciive  me  a  s:^ood  dream  to-night,  and  a  true 
one.  Show  me  what  I  ought  to  do ;  and  I  will  do  just  as  you  tell 
me." 

Towards  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  awoke.  I  had  just  seen 
myself  in  a  dream,  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  French  steamer 
Pereire.  I  dreamed  that  it  was  just  leaving  Havre  for  New  York, 
and  that  as  I  was  standing  on  its  deck,  weeping,  and  bidding  France 
a  long  and  a  sad  farewell.  I  saw  my  harp  lying  on  the  French  shore, 
with  all  its  strings  broken.  1  burst  into  tears,  and  then  awoke,  as 
the  ship,  I  thought,  moved  off  without  it. 

I  instantly  recollected  the  recjuest  I  had  made  on  going  to  bed.  I 
rose  at  once,  fell  down  on  my  knees  before  the  statue  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  screamed  out :  "  Oh,  an)  thing  but  that !  anything  but 
that!"  For  the  recollection  of  all  I  had  suffered  in  America  came 
up  vividly  before  me,  and,  to  my  mind,  the  saddest  scene  that  could 
be  predicted  in  my  future,  was  to  see  myself  bidding  a  long  farewell 
to  France,  and  returning  to  America  to  make  it  my  home.  I  im- 
l)lored  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  that  drer.n  might  never  come  true, 
and  I  lay  down  again,  after  making  the  same  request  that  I  did  on 
going  to  bed. 

I  soon  fell  asleep,  and  the  same  vision  came  to  me  again,  but 
more  distinctly  than  before.  When  I  awoke,  I  wept  bitterly,  and 
began  to  implore  the  lilessed  Virgin  to  take  pity  on  me.  She  ought 
to  know,  I  said,  what  those  Americp,ns  were,  and  liow  they  would 
troat  me,  if  they  got  a  chance  ;  and  I  pleaded  harder  than  before,  that 
that  dream  might  never  come  true  ;  and  lay  down  again,  making  the 


'C '      i 


426 


A    LETTER   ARRIVES. 


same  request,  that  she  would  tell  me  what   to  do  in  future,  to  take 
awa)'  that  aching  from  my  heart. 

'I'his  time  1  fell,  as  it  were,  into  a  swoon  ;  for  I  was  conscious,  Init 
I  could  not  move  ;  and  the  same  vision  ai)i)eared  before  me,  more 
distinct  than  ever.  It  vanished,  and  1  awoke.  But  this  time  I  was 
calm  and  resigned,  and  offered  myself  up  to  (jod  and  said  :  "Do 
with  me  as  Thou  wilt,  Lord :  not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done.  I 
will  ])iit  my  trust  in  Thee.  I  know  that  Thou  art  strong  enough  to 
j:)rotect  me,  even  against  the  Americans.  But  tell  me  when  I 
must  go." 

I  i)assed  the  whole  morning  at  the  Church  of  our  Lady  of  Vic- 
tories, imploring  (iod  to  inspire  me  when  to  go. 

At  noon  I  went  to  Miinroe's,  my  banker's,  7  rue  Scribe.  Mr. 
Stone  handled  me  a  letter  from  my  brother-in-law,  which  stated  that  my 
sister  had  conunenced  a.  suit  of  divorce  against  him,  and  begged  me 
to  come  on  and  cry  to  induce  her  to  withdraw  it ;  for  if  she  persisted 
in  her  proceedings  against  him,  it  would  bring  ruin  on  us  all,  as  he 
was  determined  to  have  the  custody  of  his  children,  and  would  dis- 
close his  wife's  parentage,  thinking  it  would  havo  some  bearing  in 
his  favor. 

I  remembered  that,  in  a  former  letter  to  my  brother-in  law,  I  had 
intimated,  in  a  casual  way,  that,  if  he  would  pay  my  expenses  to 
New  York  and  back  again,  I  would  come  on  and  try  to  persuade  iiis 
wnfe  to  live  with  him  again.  But  I  never  thought  that  he  would 
take  my  jjroposition  as  serious,  and  had  even  forgotten  all  about  it ; 
and  I  should  never  have  gone,  had  it  not  been  for  my  visio;  s  of  the 
previous  night,  for  1  was  determined  to  go  to  Rome.  But  die  mo- 
ment that  I  read  the  letter,  I  instantly  decided  to  go  to  New  York, 
as  I  felt  that  God  had  sent  me  those  visions  to  decide  me.  As  I 
h^d  resolved  to  go,  even  before  I  got  the  letter,  I  returned  to  Our 
Lady  of  Victories,  to  thank  God  for  having  sent  me  such  a  good 
excuse  to  get  off. 

I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  my  vision  to  any  one,  for  fear  of  being 
laughed  at  ;  and  I  knew  that  it  would  raise  me  in  the  estimation  of 
all  my  friends,  to  see  me  leave  my  child,  my  beautiful  home,  and  all 
the  advantages  I  had  in  Paris,  to  cross  the  Atlantic  in  order  to  make 
peace  betw^^en  my  sister  and  her  husband.  Everybody  was  startled 
at  my  determination,  and  none  more  so  than  Laferriere ,  for  he 
knew  my  repugnance  to  America,  and  it  was  a  sacrifice  he  thought 
me  incapable  of  making  to  a  sentiment  of  duty. 


A    WARNING. 


427 


'"  fi'tnre,  to  take 
[vas  conscious,  Un 


l)efore 


»1C,    IMOIC 


[•t  this  tiDic  i  Has 

'I'ld  said  :  "D^ 

line,  be  done,    i 

jstrong  enough  to 

tell  nie   when  I 

>iir  Lady  of  Vic 

'lit,"  Scribe.  Mr. 
^■Ii  stated  that  my 
and  begged  me 
'■  if  she  persisted 
1  on  us  all,  as  he 
)  and  would  dis- 
ionie  bearing  in 

her-inJaw,  I  had 
'"y  expenses  to 

to  persuade  liis 

that  he  would 

•en  all  about  it; 

ly  visio;  s  of  the' 

l^iit  (he  nio- 

to  New  York, 
'tie  nie.  As  I 
-turned  to  Our 

such  a  good 

■  fear  of  being 
estimation  of 
home,  and  all 
>rder  to  make 
'  was  startled 
"^'■e,  for  he 
J  he  thought 


I  studiously  concealed  from  every  one,  without  exception,  the 
motive  that  promjjted  me  to  make  such  a  sacrifice.  I  was  thor- 
oughly convinced  that  God  had  made  His  designs  known  to  me.  I 
was  so  well  satisfied  of  it  that  1  was  willing  to  risk  all  in  order  to  obey 
Him  ;  for  1  believed  that  as  a  reward  for  obeying  Him,  He  would 
be  bountiful  to  me,  and  would  grant  me  as  many  graces  as  there  were 
numbers  on  that  slip  of  paper,  which  1  had  seen  in  my  dream  the 
night  after  the  day  1  was  bapti/ed. 

I  was  waiting  in  expectation  of  another  vision  to  tell  me  that  these 
numbers  had  been  filled  up.  In  memory  1  could  still  hear  those 
words  as  distinctly  as  when  1  first  heard  them  in  my  sleep, — "You 
will  have  to  receive  the  grace  of  God  as  many  mbre  times  as  there 
are  numbers  on  this  slip  of  paper,  before  you  can  be  united  to  me."  I 
then  thought  that  the  union  meant  was  with  Laferriere  ;  and  I  believed 
that  by  going  to  America,  which  was  one  of  the  greatest  sacrifices  I 
could  make,  I  would  hasten  our  marriage.  It  was  thus  that  I  inter- 
preted the  vision.  The  steamer  L' Europe  was  to  sail  on  th.;  17th, 
and  the  Pereire  two  weeks  later.  I  decided  at  once  to  take  the 
Pereire. 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  by  my  window,  facing  the  apartment 
which  was  once  occupied  by  Madam  Recamier.  Over  a  terrace  un- 
derneath the  saloon  windows,  is  a  colossal  statue  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin. The  twilight  in  Paris  is  of  much  longer  duration  than  in  New 
York,  and  whenever  1  was  alone,  I  would  always  pass  that  hour  say- 
ing my  beads  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  statue.  I  was  always  sad 
at  that  hour,  and  used  to  try  to  avoid  passing  it  alone  ;  for  if  I  was 
alone,  I  was  sure  to  weep.  That  evening  I  was  saying  my  beads, 
and  at  the  same  time  invoking  the  intercession  of  St.  Joseph,  when  I 
felt  that  (iod  spoke  to  me,  and  told  me  not  to  go  in  the  Pereire,  but 
to  take  the  Europe.  I  was  as  much  convinced  that  God  told  me  to 
take  the  steamship  Euroi)e,  as  I  was  that  he  had  told  me  that  I  must 
go  to  America.    The  next  day  I  engaged  my  passage  in  that  steamer. 

The  moment  it  was  known  that  I  was  to  sail  in  the  Europe,  my 
bankers,  and  even  the  officers  of  the  steamship  company,  tried  to 
dissuade  me  from  it,  as  the  Europe  had  met  with  several  accidents 
during  her  last  trip.  She  had  lost  one  of  her  paddles,  and  this  was 
to  be  her  last  voyage.  She  was  only  going  to  take  over  a  cargo  of 
merchandise,  and  was  then  to  be  repaired.  Only  three  or  four  pas- 
sengers were  going  in  her,  because  she  would  be  at  least  twenty  days 


J,r 


^  !^ '^ 


I .  f 


31  .*: 


428 


ANOTHER   LETTER. 


crossing  the  ocean  ;  and  finally,  as  December  was  one  of  the  .voist 
months  in  the  year  to  cross  the  Atlantic,  they  all  said  ihat  by  ;ill 
means  I  should  take  the  Pereire,  which  was  the  safest  and  tin-  fasti* 
steamer  of  the  line  ;  besides,  Cai)tTin  I)iirhc:;r.e  and  myseif  were 
great  friends.  I  pretended  to  my  bankers  that  I  had  a  superstition 
about  sailing  on  the  17th,  that  it  was  a  lucky  number  for  me,  and  1 
would  risk  all,  and  nothing  could  induce  me  to  sail  on  the  2d ;  for 
the  twos  had  always  brought  me  bad  luck.  That  was  the  only  reason 
I  gave  for  sailing  in  the  Europe. 

Laferriere,  when  he  heard  these  reports  against  the  Kurojie,  in- 
sisted that  I  should  take  the  Pereire.  He  said  that  he  was  willing  to 
let  me  have  my  own  way  in  everything  else ;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
madness,  on  my  part,  to  take  a  steamer  that  was  jironounced  unsafe 
by  everybody,  even  by  the  officers  themselves.  But  nothing  that  he 
could  say  or  do  could  dissuade  me  from  taking  the  F.urope ;  because 
I  was  sure  that  God  had  told  me  to  take  it. 

A  few  days  after  the  receipt  of  my  brother  inlaw's  letter,  I  received 
one  from  my  sister.     Her  husband  had  informed  her  of  the  proba- 
bility of  my  coming  to  New  York,  to  try  to  dissuade  her  from  getting 
a  divorce.     She  wrote  to  me  begging  me  not  to  come,  saying  that 
there  was  no  need  of  it,  since  she  did  not  intend  to  press  the  suit ; 
for  she  cared  as  much  for  her  own  name  and  her  children's,  as  I  did 
for  mine.     That  1  must  not  let  her  husband  alarm  me :    she  onlv 
made  him  think  that  she  was  going  to  press  the  suit,  to  frighten  hin. 
into  her  proposals  of  settlement.     Her  letter,  which  I  now  have  be- 
fore me,  is  clear  and  decisive.     I  believed  her;    for  she  reiterates 
several  times,  that  she  only  pretends  to  press  the  suit,  so  as  to  try  to 
influence  him  to  agree  to  her  proposals,  or  to  that  effect.     I  could 
not  imagine  that,  after  writing  me  such  a  letter,  she  was  capable  of 
acting  quite  in  the  contrary  manner ;  for  she  gives  me  to  understand 
how  she  would  shrink  from  any  expose  of  her  early  history,  as  much 
on  her  childreit's  account  as  on  mine.     I  sincerely  believed  her,  and 
felt  that  my  departure  was  totally  unnecessary,  as  far  as  the  suit  was 
concerned.     I  thought  they  would  be  able  to  settle  it  amicably  be- 
tween themselves,  if  she  had  the  foresight  and  delicacy  that  her  letter 
expressed.     But  I  was  just  as  determined  to  go,  and  said  nothing  to 
any  one  about  my  sister's  letter.     I  have  referred  so  particularly  to 
my  sister's  letter  in  order  to  show  that  1  made  the  sacrifice  through 
Faith  alone ;  for  it  was  only  the  vision  that  deterred  me  from  re- 


nouncing 


A    I'KKXCII    WOMAN    ON    DIVORCE. 


429 


""^  «f  the  .vor,t 

''"''  '"y.sfir  Won. 

[i^id  a  superstition 
XT  for  iinj,  a„^j  , 

^stht^  only  reason 

/he  Kurope,  i,,. 

"e  was  Willi,,,  to 
't  seemed  to  i,i,„ 
""ounced  i,„.safo 
t  nothing  that  he 
^^"i-ope;  because 

'<-'tter,  r  received 
^r  of  the  p,oba. 
her  from  getti,ig 

P'ne,  saying  that 

^  press  the  suit; 

''fJren's,  as  I  did 

'  '"e:  sheonlv 
to  frighten  hii,', 
J  now  have  be- 

r  she  reiterates 

'  so  as  to  try  to 

^•^ct.     I  could 

w'as  caj^able  of 
to  understand 

•^fory,  as  much 

'^ved  her,  and 

"■s  the  suit  was 

•  amicably  be- 

-hat  her  letter 

>(I  nothing  to 

'articularly  to 

"ifice  through 

i»e  from  re- 


nouncing it,  after  I  received  my  sister's  letter,  and  it  was  having 
lieard  a  voice  tell  me  to  take  the  luu-opc,  while  I  was  saying  my 
beads,  that  made  me  so  obstinately  persist  in  sailing  in  that  vessel. 

I  received  letters  and  visits  of  condolence  from  all  my  friends,  the 
moment  it  was  known  that  I  was  going  to  make  such  a  sacrifice  to  a 
sentiment  of  sisterly  duty. 

The  following  letter  1  received  from  the  Countess  de  Montalem- 
bert,  just  before  1  sailed  : 

"Chateau  de  i.a  Roche  en  Rrun\^'/ 
13  December,  ili6S.  ) 

(Coted'or.) 

"  Mv  Very  Dear  Friend  : 

"  If  my  i)oor  husband  had  not  been  seized  with  another  painful  at- 
tack of  sickness,  you  would  certainly  have  had  tidings  of  me.  Ho 
charges  me  to  say  (for  I  have  told  him  so  much  about  you),  that  he, 
like  myself,  is  very  much  moved  by  the  sad  news  of  your  departure 
for  America. 

*'  1  wished  for  some  time  past  to  write  and  ask  you,  if  you  went  to 
Rome  (as  you  talked  of  doing,  i)rovided  Mme.  de  Ferriere  went),  to 
come  this  way, — the  i)lace  in  which  I  live  is  on  the  road  to  Mar- 
seilles,— but  I  was  so  occu])ied  in  a  correspondence  with  my  husband's 
physicians,  that  I  had  not  time,  and  so,  alas !  the  whole  jMOJect 
failed. 

"  I  should  have  taken  so  much  pleasure  in  receiving  you,  and  talking 
with  you.  Truly,  Fr.  (Iratry  was  right,  when  he  said,  a  few  days  ago  : 
'Jf  every  one  did  his  duty  in  his  own  sphere,  the  morals  of  the  world 
would  be  perfect,  and  every  one  would  be  happy.'  The  motive  of 
your  departure,  which  you  confided,  dear  Madam,  to  my  friendly 
heart,  has  filled  me  with  sadness ;  an  unhappy  lawsuit  between  a 
husband  and  wife,  and  to  obtain,  what  ? — The  absolute  rui)ture  of  the 
sacred  tie  of  marriage.  Ah  !  what  a  misfortune,  what  a  scandal, 
what  a  lamentable  situation  for  the  poor  children,  whose  fathei  will 
not  be  any  the  less  their  father  although  separated,  divorced  from  his 
wife.  Yes,  I  sympathize  with  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  admire 
the  task  you  have  so  generously  imposed  upon  yourself,  of  going  in 
spite  of  the  severity  of  the  season,  in  spite  of  the  terrible  sorrow  of 
l)lacing  the  ocean  between  yourself  and  your  sweet  little  girl,  to  try 
to  put  a  stop  to  this  unfortunate  trial. 

"  When  I  used  to  meet  in  the  world  women  who  were  made  unhappy 


111 


f.  ( „ 


mi    ; 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  872-4503 


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V 


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i    K*' 


:', 


'     i 


430 


THE   PLEA   OF  THE   CHILDREN, 


by  their  husbands,  and  who  sought  to  console  themselves  by  doing 
wrong  in  their  turn,  how  many  times,  when  I  was  young,  ardent,  im- 
passioned,  have  I  thought :  *  Yes,  if  they  had  no  children,  I  .should 
know  how  to  understand  such  revenge,  and  such  crimes.'  Still  1  would 
think  them  guilty ;  for  our  conscience  tells  us  that  we  have  not  the 
right  to  become  wicked  because  others  are,  or  a[)i)ear  to  be  so.  With- 
out children,  these  revenges,  these  shortcomings,  could  be  under- 
stood, though  not  excused.  But  with  children— ;;/<7«  Dieu !  how 
coukl  a  truly  maternal  heart  inflict  upon  these  poor,  little,  weak,  de- 
fenceless creatures  such  disgrace — such  irreparable  dishonor. 

"  When  we  love,  we  know  how  to  suffer  everything  ;  yes,  everything, 
for  those  we  love  ;  a  mother  ought  to  suffer  everything,  rather  than 
diminish  in  any  way  the  reputation,  the  joy,  the  peace,  of  those  who 
depend  on  her  to  the  extent  in  which  poor  children  depend  on  their 
mother,  on  her  reputation,  her  sentiments,  her  conduct,  her  goodness, 
her  love,  or  her  hatred  ! 

"  Dear  Madam,  I  hear  the  rain  falling,  and  I  think  of  your  voyage. 
But  God  will  protect  you  against  all  accidents ;  for  you  venture  to 
endure  storms,  and  even  shipwrecks,  to  protect,  if  you  can,  all  these 
great  moral  and  even  tem[)oral  interests.  For  the  honor  of  a  fami/j,  b 
a  reward  in  this  world. 

"  I  will  pray  for  you  with  all  my  soul — I  did  so  to-day  at  vespers.  I, 
who  am  always  so  sea-sick  on  the  water,  so  afraid  when  the  wind 
blows — I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  admire  your  sisterly  devotion.  I  re- 
collect the  portrait  that  you  showed  me  of  your  sister,  and  which  wa. 
so  beautiful ;  God  could  not  permit  so  beautiful  an  exterior  to  en 
close  a  soul  without  tenderness  for  her  children,  and  pity  for  her  hus- 
band. You  told  me  that  she  was  travelling  in  Europe,  and  mean- 
while her  husband  had  fallen  sick  in  America.  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  the  world  will  ask,  why  your  sister  should  put  such  a  distance 
between  herself  and  him.  With  us  a  woman  would  never  travel 
alone  in  this  way  for  pleasure,  unless  it  were  to  alleviate  griefs  that  she 
might  have  at  home.  And  then,  these  j)oor  little  children  !  I  do 
not  know  them,  but  you  have  so  often  told  me  how  charming  they 
are — how  can  she  help  thinking  of  them,  help  pitying  them,  when 
they  open  their  eyes  to  what  is  going  on  between  their  father  and 
mother  !  I  know  a  little  girl  who  tiiai  of  grief,  after  witnessing  the 
separation  of  her  parents.  She  was  the  child  of  a  distant  relation  of 
mine. 


|iV. 

-niselves  by  doin. 

yoi'ng,  ardent,  i,," 

cJ^ildren,  I  .should 
l>'"c.s.'  Still  i  would 
tt  we  have  not  the 
jar  to  be  so.  \\it|,. 
[.  could  be  under. 
^nion  Dieu!  how 
f'-,  little,  H-eak,  do. 

(iishonor. 
;? ;  yes,  everything, 
thing,  rather  tha^^i' 
■ace,  of  those  who 
"  depend  on  their 
"ct,  her  goodness, 

^  of  your  voya<re. 
or  you  venture  to 
>'o»  can,  all  these 
'"or  of  a  famih  x^ 

iay  at  vespers.   J, 
'  »'hen  the  vi\n(\ 

devotion.  I  re- 
r,  and  which  wa. 
f>  exterior  to  en 

pity  for  her  luis- 
'ope,  and  mean- 
"lot  help  think- 

siich  a  distance 
Id  never  travel 

e  griefs  that  she 
hildren  !     I  do 
charming  they 
ig  them,  when 
eir  father  and 
^vitnessing  (he 
nt  relation  of 


KIND   WORDS  AT  PARTING. 


431 


"May  God  then  grant  you  the  extreme  joy  of  succeeding  in  the  ad- 
mirable mission  that  you  so  generously  attempt  to  fulfil.  I  will  beg 
it  often  of  Him,  until  you  return  to  the  charming  apartments  that  you 
have  arranged  in  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois,  where  I  was  going  to  give 
myself  a  treat  by  visiting  you  in  February,  on  my  return  to  Paris. 

"  When  I  pass  your  gate,  I  shall  see  with  a  sad  heart  your  closed 
windows.  If  you  authorize  me,  I  will  go  to  see  your  dear  little  girl 
from  time  to  time,  during  your  absence.  Mention  me  to  the  Reli- 
gious, so  that  they  may  know  that  I  come  by  your  ])ermission. 

"  1  am  so  hurried  that  I  write  as  fasj  as  my  pen  can  run.  Excuse 
me  for  doing  so.  Allow  me  to  embrace  you  with  greatest  tender- 
ness, my  dear  excellent  friend. 

"  MliRODE    DE    MONTALEMBERT." 

On  the  i6th  of  December,  I.aferriere  accompanied  me  to  the  train, 
which  was  to  bear  me  to  Havre,  in  time  to  take  the  Eiuope,  which 
sailed  early  on  the  morning  of  the  17th.  He  advised  me  all  the  way 
like  a  fond  parent,  and  dwelt  long  and  particularly  upon  my  relations 
with  those  I  would  meet  on  my  arrival,  and  begged  me  not  to  be  de- 
ceived by  their  protestations  of  friendship  ;  for  many  of  my  country- 
men must  know  the  position  I  held  in  Paris,  and  might  wish  to 
cultivate  my  acquaintance,  just  to  make  use  of  me.  He  cited  me  a 
I^tin  verse,  and  was  just  going  to  translate  it  for  me,  when  the  train 
moved  off. 

When  I  arrived  at  Brest  I  received  the  following  letter  from  him  ; 

and  also  another  soon  after  my  arrival  in  New  York,  which  I  will  give 

ill  its  proper  place,  in  which  he  gives  me  the  translation  of  the  Latin 

which  he  had  not  time  to  translate  for  me  before  the  train  started, 

and   wherein   he   also   congratulates   me    for  not  having  taken   the 

Pereire  : 

«•  Palace  of  the  Tuu-kries,  Paris, 

December  18,   1868. 
"  Afv  Dear  Child, 

"  My  thoughts  are  always  with  you,  they  accompany  you  in  your 
painful  voyage,  they  follow  you  across  the  wide  ocean  which  separates 
us,  but  which  in  spite  of  all  its  ])ower  cannot  efface  your  memory  from 
my  soul,  or  destroy  my  hojic  of  soon  seeing  you  again. 

"  I  hid  my  feelings  when  we  parted,  to  render  the  separation  less 
painful,  and  to  leave  you  the  courage  you  will  need  so  much  in  ex-, 
ecuting  the  dirticult  mission  that  you  have  imposed  upon  yourself. 


432 


A  LETTER  WHICH  IS  A   SERMON. 


n 


Vf  'i'l' 


\\  !*; 


[^ 


"  In  spite  of  the  grief  I  feel,  I  cannot  blame  your  determination:  it 
raises  you  in  my  eyes,  as  it  will  in  those  of  all  who  know  you.  I  love 
you  too  much  not  to  be  proud  of  your  conduct ;  it  pro\'es  how  worthy 
you  are  of  my  affection. 

"  You  will  undoubtedly  succeed,  and  the  consciousness  of  having  ful- 
filled  so  great  a  duty  will  assuage  your  grief. 

"  I  regret  that  I  cannot  share  your  hardships  and  your  weariness ; 
my  advice  and  my  experience  would  be  of  great  service  to  you  in 
these  difficult  circumstances.  Still,  I  am  convinced  that  you  will  act 
with  wisdom. 

"  You  have  become  a  fervent  Christian,  and  your  religion  will  give 
you  strength  ;  it  will  help  you  to  endure  injustice  and  wrong,  it  has 
already  taught  you  that  the  miseries  of  this  world  are  the  trials  that 
lead  the  way  to  a  better  life,  and  that  to  suffer  with  resignation  is 
most  meritorious  in  the  eyes  of  (lod.  lie  strong  and  i)atient,  there- 
fore, my  dear  child  ;  do  not  give  way  to  your  fust  impulses  ;  ask  your- 
self what  I  would  advise  under  all  circumstances. 

"  You  have  grown  much  more  prudent  and  reserved,  but  you  still 
have  too  much  abandon  with  strangers.  This  is  because  of  your 
excellent  disposition ;  you  think  every  one  sincere  and  true,  because 
you  are  so  yourself  You  do  not  remember  that  men  can  act  a  part. 
Dear  child,  time  and  experience  should  have  taught  you  that  great 
and  small,  all  are  actors ;  that  every  one  here  below  wears  a  mask 
to  hide  their  features.  To  distrust  every  one  is  sad,  but  it  is  better 
than  to  confide  in  them. 

"  Women,  generally,  will  be  jealous  of  you  ;  they  will  try  to  find  out 
your  secrets  in  order  to  do  you  some  ill  turn.  Men  will  pay  homage 
to  you,  and  if  you  give  them  the  least  hope,  they  will  become  your 
bitter  enemies  as  soon  as  they  find  that  they  cannot  possess  you.  All 
this  is  not  encouraging  :  but  it  is  better  to  know  the  danger,  than  to 
walk  blindly  along  a  way  bordered  with  preci[)ices. 

"You  are  warned,  you  are  wise  and  strong  ;  so,  God  helping,  you 
will  escape  all  danger. 

"  Be  careful  of  your  health,  my  poor  child  ;  your  body  is  too  weak  for 
the  ardor  and  fire  of  your  soul — it  is  a  covering  wearied  by  the  strengtli 
of  the  passions  it  encloses.  Try  to  be  more  calm  ;  it  is  necessary 
for  the  success  of  your  enterprise,  and  indispensable  for  your  Iiealtli. 
When  you  find  yourself  troubled  and  agitated,  take  the  '  Imitation  nf 
Jesus  Christ ; '  you  will  always  find  words  of  consolation  there,  which 
will  bring  peac"  to  your  soul. 


"Y 

griefs 
But  y 
self  to 
some 
iounc 
that 
have 
mean: 
of  om 


ON. 

ir  determination;  it 
know  you.  Hove 
pio\'es  how  worthy 

isness  of  liaviiig  ful. 

id  your  weariness ; 

service  to  you  in 

;d  that  you  will  act 

ir  reh'gion  will  give 
and  wrong.  Jthas 
are  the  trials  that 
with  resignation  is 
ind  patient,  there- 
"pulses;  ask  your- 

-rved,  but  you  still 
i  because  of  your 
and  true,  because 
len  can  act  a  part, 
ght  you  that  great 
ow  wears  a  mask 
■d,  but  it  is  better 

will  try  to  find  out 
1  will  pay  homage 
win  become  your 
Jossess  you.  All 
e  danger,  than  to 

■-Jod  helping,  you 

Jy  is  too  weak  for 
I  by  the  strength 
;  it  is  necessary 
for  your  health. 
iti  'Imitation  of 
ion  there,  which 


MODESTY. 


433 


I 


"You  have  had,  dear  child,  a  life  full  of  crosses,  deception,  and 
griefs ; — undoubtedly  you  have  not  deserved  so  much  misfortune. 
But  you  have  never  had  any  rule  of  conduct ;  you  have  allowed  your- 
self to  be  too  much  carried  away  by  your  passions  :  to-day  you  have 
some  experience,  but  more  than  that  you  have  religion,  that  solid 
foundation  on  which  you  can  lean  without  fear.  Therefore  I  hope 
that  you  will  triumph  over  all  difficulties.  Do  not  forget  what  I 
have  told  you  so  many  times, — that  modesty  is  one  of  the  surest 
means  of  success ;  and  that  it  consists  in  speaking  as  little  as  possible 
of  one's  self,  and  of  what  one  has  done. 

"  In  America  you  are  all  rather  boastful.  You  love  to  tell  of  your 
life,  your  relations,  your  friendships  ;  this  is  a  defect  not  known  in 
France  among  well-bred  people  ;  they  have  others  quite  as  serious, 
but  not  this.  . 

"  Now  I  have  given  you  a  great  deal  of  good  advice,  dictated  as  you 
must  know  by  my  profound  affection  and  my  desire  to  see  you  per- 
fect. You  will  receive  it  then,  dear  child,  with  the  certainty  that  I 
have  only  had  your  welfare  and  happi  \ess  in  view. 

*'  While  you  are  working  so  courageously  for  others,  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  will  watch  over  your  child  as  if  she  were  my  own.  I  will 
give  her  toys,  bonbons,  caresses ;  I  will  try  to  take  your  place. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  child,  that  my  letter  will  find  you  at  Brest  in  tolera- 
ble health  and  in  a  courageous  frame  of  mind.  I  do  not  speak  of 
your  heart ;  I  know  it  is  torn,  and  I  can  give  you  no  other  consolation 
than  to  say  that  I  pity  you,  and  I  share  your  sorrow 

"  You  have  grown  much  in  my  esteem  ;  I  respect  you  now  as  well 

as  love  you.     You  were  my  good  and  loving  child  ;    now  you  have 

become  a  strong  and  courageous  woman,  and  my  confidence  in  you 

is  deeply  rooted.     I  pray  God  to  watch  over  and  protect  you,  and 

to  sustain  you  in  )'our  trials.     Do  not  forget  me  in  your  prayers  ; 

and  be  assured  that  my  thoughts  and  my  love  will  be  ever  faithful  to 

you.  .       , 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  Laferriere." 
19  • 


■\-\\ 


434 


ti 


THE   CAUSE  OF  ALL  EVIL.' 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

DEFEATED  BV  A  WOMAN,  I  HAVE  RECOURSE  TO  GOD. — ACCIDENT  TO 

THE  PEREIRE. 

I  SAILED  in  the  French  steamship  L' Europe,  and  after  a  voyage  of 
twenty  days  arrived  at  New  Vork  Jan.  5th,  1869.  I  took  a  suite  of 
rooms  at  the  Westminster  Hotel. 

The  first  thing  I  heard  on  my  arrival  was  that  my  sister  had 
begim  to  press  the  suit ;  in  fact,  the  papers  had  been  served  the  day 
before  I  arrived.  When  my  sister  called  to  see  me,  her  only  excuse 
for  pressing  the  suit  was,  that  she  had  changed  her  mind.  I  up- 
braided her  for  the  disgrace  she  was  going  to  bring  upon  us  all  by  the 
exposure  that  would  be  made  about  our  past  history  in  the  trial ;  but 
she  appeared  insensible  to  the  odium  that  such  a  disclosure  would 
naturally  bring  down  upon  her  children  as  well  as  my  own  child. 
She  was  determined  to  get  a  divorce,  and  brave  any  future  humilia- 
tion which  it  might  cause  her. 

As  is  generally  the  case  in  such  affairs,  a  woman  was  the  cause  of 
all  the  trouble,  and,  what  rendered  the  matter  more  aggravating,  this 
woman  had  been  formerly  one  of  my  sister's  servants.  My  sister  was 
highly  incensed  against  her  husband,  but  I  begged  her  so  earnestly  to 
uefer  the  suit,  for  at  least  another  month,  to  give  me  an  opportunity 
to  try  and  arrange  matters,  that  she  consented.  I  persuaded  my 
brother-in-law  to  get  the  woman,  who  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble, 
to  call  on  me. 

I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  induce  her  to  leave  the  country.  She 
came,  and,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  she  was  young  and  good-look- 
ing, I  might  add  prepossessing.  I  say  I  was  surprised,  because  my 
sister  had  given  me  quite  a  different  description  of  her.  She  entered 
my  parlor  with  a  haughty  air,  and  at  first  tried  to  treat  me  like  an 
inferior,  giving  me  to  understand  that  she  was  above  reproach,  but 
that  she  knew  I  was  far  from  it.  She  repeated  to  me  all  that  my 
sister  had  told  about  me,  not  only  to  herself,  but  to  other  servant- 
girls. 

While  the  girl  was  relating  this  to  me,  the  thought  struck  i:  e  that 
it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  for  me  to  do  a  good  and  n.ble  action, 


;.'v 


ANOTHER   SERMON  BY  POST. 


435 


^ACCIDENT  TO 


per  a  voyage  of 
took  a  suite  of 

my  sister  had 
served  the  day 
er  only  excuse 
r  mind.     I  up. 
1  us  all  by  the 
I  the  trial ;  but 
iclosure  would 
my  own  child, 
future  huniilia- 

s  the  cause  of 
gravating,  this 
My  sister  was 
30  earnestly  to 
n  opportunity 
Persuaded  niy 
.11  the  trouble, 

ountry.  She 
id  good-look- 
because  my 
She  entered 
It  me  like  an 
eproach,  but 
e  all  that  my 
ther  servant- 

uck  i:  e  that 
I-  ble  action, 


and  that  perliaps  God  demanded  I  should  do  for  this  poor  girl, 
what  He  had  inspired  a  generous  heart  years  ago  to  do  for  me. 
I  told  her  that  if  she  would  leave  Brooklyn,  and  would  go  to  some 
boarding-school,  a  few  hundred  miles  from  New  York,  I  would 
pay  her  expenses  ;  she  might  remain  there,  until  she  was  capable 
of  earning  her  livelihood  by  teaching.  She  indignantly  refused  my 
offer,  saying  that  she  would  never  leave  Brooklyn,  until  she  had 
glutted  her  revenge  on  my  sister,  for  affronts  and  insults  received 
from  her. 

That  .same  evening,  as  I  sat  down  before  my  looking-glass,  to 
make  my  usual  reflective  summary  of  the  day,  I  began  calculating 
my  chances  of  success  in  bringing  about  a  reconciliation  between 
my  sister  and  her  husband,  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
woman  was  more  than  my  match.  From  that  moment  I  turned 
the  whole  case  over  to  God,  and  implored  Him  to  attend  to  it ;  for 
only  He  was  strong  enough  to  thwart  the  machinations  of  such  a 
woman.  The  moral  I  drew  from  my  reflections  on  that  day's  ex- 
perience was  :  that  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  offend  a  pretty  maid, 
and  that  a  wise  woman  will  never  engage  one. 

1  had  not  been  in  New  York  long,  before  I  received  the  following 
letter  from  Laferridre :  .      ,  . 

"Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  Paris, 
.  '         '  yan.  17M,  1869. 

"Mv  Dkar  Child, 

"A  whole  month  has  elapsed  without  my  receiving  any  news  from 
you.  I  don't  blame  you,  1  only  complain  of  the  immense  distance 
which  separates  us,  when  it  would  be  so  sweet  to  be  united  and  live 
peacefully  together,  in  your  pretty  little  corner  of  the  Abbaye  aux 
Bois.  What  a  sad  thing  is  life  1  An  incessant  struggle  against  fate, 
a  continual  looking  forward  to  a  future  which  perhaps  will  never 
come,  a  disregard  for  the  present,  regrets  for  the  past,  and  then  at 
the  end  of  all,  death  !  Happy  those  who  have  a  sincere,  lively  faith  j 
their  last  hour  is  welcome  as  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"  Even  though  you  had  found  nothing  in  Europe  but  your  faith,  you 
ought  to  think  yourself  happy,  for  it  is  the  sole  treasure  that  we  can 
keep  till  the  end  of  life,  and  which  gives  us  strength  when  Death 
opens  the  doors  of  eternity. 

•'I  am  very  sad  in  my  solitude  •  you  were  my  joy,  and  my  youth, 


:^'v 


436 


MY   FRIENDS   ARE   EDIFIED. 


n 


you  dissipated  my  melancholy,  and  beside  you  my  ill-munors  were 
dispelled.  I  have  no  longer  any  one  to  whom  I  can  open  my  heart. 
I  am  constantly  obliged  to  hide  my  feelings  under  my  official  mask ; 
it  is  very  painful. 

"  You,  my  love,  are  pious ;  this  will  be  your  support  and  consolation 
in  all  your  trials.  Since  you  entered  en  the  way  of  salvation,  my 
affection  for  you  has  taken  another  character;  it  has  become  more 
grave  and  serious.  1  have  a  profound  esteem  for  you  now,  as  well 
as  love.  I  am  happy  to  see  that  many  respected  and  distinguished 
persons  profess  for  you  the  same  sentiments  which  fill  my  heart,  and 
>  hich  justify,  so  to  say,  my  deep  and  unalterable  attachment. 

'  Every  one  praises  and  admires  the  resolution  that  you  have  taken. 
1  am  glad  that  they  render  you  justice.  All  who  know  you  speak  of 
you  with  the  utmost  respect,  and  are  interested  in  the  success  of  your 
good  work.  I  take  care  of  your  friends  as  if  you  were  in  Paris.  I 
a!-  on  the  best  of  terms  with  General  Dix ;  we  often  speak  of  you. 
He  takes  a  great  interest  in  you,  and  has  promised  me  to  assist  you 
as  much  as  is  in  his  power. 

*'  Knowing  that  you  had  left,  Madam  d' A sent  letter  after  let- 
ter to  induce  me  to  visit  her  ;  but  I  remained  firm.  I  sent  her  a  tons 
les  diables  !  You  may  be  sure,  dear  child,  that  I  will  not  take  a  sin- 
gle step  which  would  pain  you,  and  that  I  love  you  too  much  not  to 
avoid  your  enemies  and  cherish  your  friends. 

•'  You  are  so  loving  and  good  that  one  must  be  heartless  to  give 
you  the  least  cause  of  discontent.  Rely  upon  me  as  I  do  upon 
you  ;  I  am  certain  that  neither  time  nor  absence  can  alter  my 
affection,  founded  as  it  is  upon  esteem  and  the  knowledge  I  have 
of  your  sentiments.  Rest  assured  that  everything  that  interests 
you  will  become  a  matter  of  great  importance  to  me.  You  must 
know  by  experience  that  I  never  forget  anything  you  ask  of  me  ; 
only  I  have  my  way  of  doing  things,  and  you  have  yours  ;  you  are 
always  in  a  hurry,  I  go  slowly, — but  I  succeed,  which  is  the  impor- 
tant point. 

"  You  remember  that  your  friends,  and  I  especially,  wanted  you  to 
wait  for  the  Pereire  ;  but  you  were  impatient  and  not  willing  to  lose 
time.  Your  decision  was  rewarded;  this  unfortunate  vessel  was 
obliged  to  return  to  Havre,  and  lost  several  passengers. 

"  I  have  been  very  much  put  about,  since  your  departure.  I  don't 
know  which  way  to  turn.      The  Rue  de  Sevres  was  my  accustomed 


left, 


OVID   WITH  A  TRANSLATION. 


437 


|l-niiinors  were 

»pen  my  heart. 

official  mask ; 

nd  consolation 
salvation,  my 

become  more 
now,  as  well 

distinguished 

my  heart,  and 

hment. 

oil  have  taken. 

you  speak  of 
iiccess  of  your 
re  in  Paris.  1 
speak  of  you. 
e  to  assist  you 

letter  after  let- 
sent  her  d  tons 
not  take  a  sin- 
0  much  not  to 

irtless  to  give 
s  I  do  upon 
can  alter  my 
'edge  I  have 
hat  interests 
•  You  must 
ask  of  me  ; 
;rs;  you  are 
is  the  impor-  • 

in  ted  you  to 
'lling  to  lose 
!  vessel  was 

re.  I  don't 
accustomed 


promenade,  and  I  no  longer  know  where  to  go.  The  world  is  odious 
to  me.  I  cannot  persuade  myself  to  take  i^art  in  this  perpetual  com- 
edy. I  find  it  tiresome  and  ridiculous.  My  heart  is  so  sad  since  you 
left,  that  everything  wearies  me.  Towards  the  close,  and  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year,  it  seems  to  me  that  misery  increases  ;  I  am  as- 
sailed by  artists  dying  of  hunger,  and  my  purse  is  so  empty  that  I  can 
only  give  them  words  of  hope,  which  cannot  afford  them  much  re- 
lief. 

"When  I  see  so  much  suffering  and  am  powerless  to  relieve  it,  I 
am  filled  with  a  mortal  sadness.  I  ask  myself — is  society  well  organ- 
ized ?  Your  heart  is  so  tender  towards  the  poor,  that  you  will  un- 
derstand how  the  visits  of  these  poor  people  pain  me  and  sadden 
my  thoughts. 

*'  AV'hen  you  were  near  me  I  could  relate  my  impressions  to  you,  and 
you  insjjired  me  with  patience  and  courage  ;  you  are  no  longer  here, 
dear  child,  but  I  tell  you  my  troubles  from  habit,  instead  of  busying 
myself  with  your  affairs. 

"  You  have  seen  your  sister,  and  you  ought  to  know  now  if  there  is 
any  way  of  bringing  her  to  reason.  I  wrote  a  letter  full  of  advice  to 
you  at  Brest.  I  don't  wish  to  annoy  you  by  repeating,  but  I  beg  of 
you  to  be  prudent  and  reserved,  especially  among  Catholics.  Prac- 
tise your  religion  simply,  without  noise,  without  any  one's  notice ; 
this  is  the  true  way  to  be  a  good  Christian.  But  above  all,  my 
child,  distrust  yourself  and  your  impressions :  do  not  take  impres- 
sions cither  in  love  or  in  hate.  Be  simple  and  kind  with  every 
one.  One  very  rarely  finds  disinterested  friends  ;  the  generality 
of  people  are  disposed  to  make  one  pay  dear  for  their  pretended 
friendship. 

"  Here  are  the  Latin  verses,  which  I  have  translated  for  you : 

Donee  eris  filix,  multos  numerabis  atnicos  ; 

As  long  as  you  are  fortunate ,  you  will  have  many  friends  j 

Tenipora  si  fiierint  tiubiia,  solus  eris. 

If  bad  times  overtake  you,  you  w:J  find  yourself  alone. 

"To  pass  to  a  less  serious  order  of  ideas, — I  often  see  your  dear 
little  girl,  llie  poor  child  charges  me  to  tell  you  to  come  back 
soon,  and  that  she  will  pray  for  the  success  of  your  voyage. 

"  She  is  coming  to  see  me  Sunday,  to  get  her  bonbons  and  toys. 
You  can  be  easy  about  her ;  she  will  be  just  as  well  cared  for  as  if  you 


438 


"  GOOD   SOCIKTY,' 


were  here.  Of  course  the  best 'thing  in  the  work!  will  be  wanting  to 
her,  a  mother's  care  ;  but  I  will  watch  her  with  the  greatest  solicitude. 

"  I  sent  Rollin  your  letter  from  IJrest ;  the  poor  man  will  pass  all 
his  time  in  deciphering  it. 

"All  that  you  have  reconuiiended  to  me  shall  be  scrupulously 
executed;  it  is  my  only  means  of  proving  to  you  that  I  think  unceas- 
ingly of  you. 

"  Dear  child,  may  this  new  year  be  a  calm  and  happy  one  for  you ; 
may  it  reunite  us  and  bring  us  cloudless  days. 

"  Accept  my  most  tender  and  affectionate  remembrances,  and  the 
assurance  of  my  unchangeable  attachment. 

.  "  LAFERRlfeRE." 

Mrs.  Dix  and  several  other  ladies  gave  ine  a  cordial  welcome. 
One  lady,  whom  1  had  obli^jed  in  France,  returned  to  Europe 
shortly  after  I  arrived,  and  left  me  the  use  of  her  horses,  carriages, 
and  coachman,  as  a  return  for  my  kindness  to  her  and  her  friends. 
There  was  a  desperate  effort  made  to  prevent  my  being  received  into 
society;  but  Mrs.  Dix  became  my  champion,  and  stood  by  me  like  a 
mother.  I  used  to  call  her  the  Countess  de  Montalembe.t  of 
America ;  as  it  was  through  her  protection  and  influence  that  I  was 
received  by  some  of  the  best  families  in  New  York. 

Mrs.  Dix  was  independent  and  could  do  as  she  liked ;  for  she  was 
born  a  lady,  and  her  husband  had  not  been  created  by  large  con- 
tracts, or  by  ability  to  keep  a  hotel.  She  fully  coincided  in  the 
opinions  expressed  by  her  husband,  General  Dix,  in  the  following 
letter  to  me  : 

"Paris,  December  17,  1868. 
*'  Mv  Dear  Mrs.  Eckel, 

"  I  have  received  your  letter  informing  me  of  your  sudden  depart- 
ure for  the  United  States  and  the  cause.  I  need  not  say  that  I 
deeply  regret  it.  Your  sister  came  to  the  Legation  in  the  summer  of 
1867.  I  remember  her  very  distinctly  ;  and  I  was  most  favorably  im- 
pressed with  her  personal  appearance  and  her  conversation,  as  well 
as  her  lady-like  manners.  Nothing  could  be  more  unfortunate  for 
her  than  to  have  her  domestic  relations  made  the  subject  of  a  public 
investigation ;  for,  admitting  that  she  is  entirely  faultless  in  the  un- 
happy difference  between  her  and  her  husband,  it  will  be  a  perpetual 
stain  on  the  reputation  of  her  children,  if  she  succeeds  in  making  out 


such  a 

It  is  fa 

send 

upon 

the  w 

better 

tion. 

in  sue 

interc 

sure. 


BEGGARS  ON   HORSEBACK. 


439 


be  wanting  to 
fest  solicitude, 
fn  will  pass  all 

scrupulously 
'  think  unceas- 

one  for  you ; 

pices,  and  the 

'"ERRlilRE." 

lial  welcome, 
to  Europe 
cs,  carriages, 
tJ  lier  friends, 
received  into 
l>y  >He  like  a 
taleiube.  t  of 
be  that  I  was 

for  she  was 
y_  Jarge  con- 
ided  in  the 
le  following 


''  17,  r868. 

^en  depart- 
say  that  I 
sunnner  of 
'orably  i,„. 
5n,  as  well 
tunate  for 
f  a  public 
n  the  un- 
perpetual 
iking  out 


such  a  case  against  him  as  to  justify  a  judicial  decree  of  separation. 
It  is  far  better  to  submit  to  the  deepest  of  conjugal  wrongs  than  to 
send  innocent  children  through  life  with  such  a  burden  of  reproach 
ui)on  them.  Even  when  the  error  is  on  the  part  of  the  wife,  whom 
the  world  always  judges  more  severely  than  the  husband,  it  had 
better  be  covered  up,  and  the  family  shame  averted  by  a  quiet  separa- 
tion. If  the  true  friends  of  your  sister  present  these  considerations, 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  assure  her  that  they  are  actuated  by  a  sincere 
interest  in  her  welfare,  and  that  of  her  children,  she  will  not  I  am 
sure,  refuse  to  listen  to  them. 

"To  you  any  public  exposure  would  be  most  unfortunate,  by 
prejudicing  your  social  position  at  court,  and  in  the  society  of  Paris. 
Divorces  here  are  not  allowed,  either  by  the  civil  or  the  ecclesiastical 
law.  They  are  a  badge  of  dishonor,  and  so  strong  is  the  prejudice 
against  them,  that  it  extends  in  some  degree  to  the  other  branches  of 
a  family.  That  a  divorce  in  your  sister's  case  would  injure  you  very 
seriously,  there  is  no  doubt. 

"  On  her  account,  on  that  of  her  children,  and  on  yours,  I  earnestly 
hope  that  such  a  calamity  (I  do  not  use  too  strong  a  term)  may  be 
averted.  If  she  and  her  husband  cannot  live  together,  let  them 
separate  quietly.  Life  is  full  of  changes,  and  time  often  brings 
troubles  to  an  end  much  more  satisfactorily  than  our  own  action,  even 
when  it  is  guided  by  the  greatest  prudence. 

"  If  there  is  anything  which  I  can  do  for  you  to  aid  you,  please 
advise  me,  and  it  shuU  be  done  promptly. 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"John  A.  Dix." 

In  the  parlors  I  frequented  most  of  the  people  were  well  bred  ; 
yet  occasionally  here  and  there  could  be  seen  some  figures  whose 
manners  and  accent  would  betray  their  origin  and  training.  In  vain 
they  tried  to  conceal  it  by  gewgaws,  and  a  feigned  air  of  haughty  re- 
serve. It  was  just  as  impossible  to  mistake  one  of  these  people  for 
a  gentleman  or  lady  as  it  would  be  to  take  a  genuine  African  for  a 
pure  Caucasian. 


li[ 


440 


WHY   DONKEYS   EAT  THISTLES. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

MIDNIGHT   REFLECTIONS    BEFORE   THE    LOOKING-GLASS. 

I  HAD  just  returned  from  a  first-class  New  York  sociable,  '.viiich 
reminded  me  of  a  field  of  full-blown  clover  intersi)crsed  with  thistles. 
The  clover,  with  its  gracefully  drooping  blossoms,  has  an  aspect  of  in 
stinctive  ease  and  modesty,  which  seems  to  be  innate  in  persons  of 
good  breeding,  while  the  thistle  stiffly  shoots  itself  above  the  clover 
with  that  air  of  impertinent  presumption  which  so  readily  distinguishes 
the  upstart.  Yet  the  blossom  of  the  thistle  and  the  clover  have  the 
same  violet  hue ;  and  the  thistle  even  outvies  the  clover  in  the 
downy  texture  of  its  flower,  which  shoots  itself  up  boldly,  as  though, 
like  an  aigrette  of  gems  on  the  head  of  a  haughty,  ill-bred  woman,  it 
sought  to  attract  the  gaze  of  all.  The  thistle  too  can  outdo  the 
clover  in  bustle  and  show  ;  but  just  watch  the  cattle,  and  you  will  see 
that  none  but  the  jackasses  like  it  and  eat  it. 

I  once  asked  my  husband  why  the  donkeys  eat  thistles.  "  Because, 
darling,"  he  replied,  "  they  are  jackasses,  and  they  don't  know  any 
better."  During  the  winter  I  passed  in  New  York,  1869,  I  never 
went  into  society  without  thinking  how  many  men  there  were  in  the 
world  who  resembled  the  jackasses  in  this  respect. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

A   TRUCE    BETWEEN    HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 

The  parvenues  of  New  York  hated  me  for  my  success  in  Paris, 
and  did  their  best  to  have  me  excluded  from  society.  Fighting  my 
way  against  such  odds  became  wearisome  and  annoying.  I  tired  of 
the  excitement,  and  wished  my  enemies  would  attend  to  their  own 
business  and  leave  me  alone. 

Not  having  any  one  to  whom  I  could  open  my  heart,  I  would  com- 
plain to  I.aferridre  and  would  write  him  how,  if  ever  I  caught  any  of 
my  hostile  country-people  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea,  I  would  pay 


them 
foot 

Ills 

sanit 


DEMOCRACY, 


441 


■CLASS. 

sociable,  vWiich 
[cl  with  tliistlcs. 

I"  aspect  of  in 
in  persons  of 
[ove  the  clover 
Jy  distinguishes 
lover  have  the 
clover   in    the 
flly,  as  though, 
>red  woman,  it 
-m  outdo  the 
'd  you  will  see 

S"  "  Because, 
5n't  know  any 
^869>  I  never 
re  were  in  the 


ss  in  Paris, 

Mghting  my 

J  tired  of 

>  their  own 

vould  com- 
ght  any  of 
would  pay 


them  off  for  their  insolence;  and  I' would  beg  of  him  not  to  put  his 
foot  into  an  American  parlor  during  my  absence,  but  to  scratch  off  of 
his  lists  even  the  relatives  of  my  new  host  of  persecutors.  At  the 
same  time,  I  would  renew  to  him  the  sentiments  of  my  affection  for 
himself,  which  still  overflowed  my  heart.  He  was  a  scrupulously 
inmctual  correspondent.  In  answer  to  one  of  my  letters  I  received 
the  following : — 

"Palace  of  the  Tuileries, 
"  Paris,  May  27th,  1869. 
"  My  Dear  Child, 

"On  reading  your  very  ardent  letter,  I  feel  what  a  difference  there 
is  in  our  ages.  The  misfortunes  of  your  infancy,  the  griefs  and  decep- 
tions of  your  youth,  have  not  been  able  to  cool  the  fire  of  your  imag- 
ination ;  it  is  an  ardent  flame  that  consumes  you  and  destroys  your 
poor  body.  I  often  ask  how  can  such  letters  be  addressed  to  a  man 
of  my  age  ;  I  look  in  my  glass  to  see  how  far  the  error  can  go — alas  ! 
the  faithful  mirror  shows  me  the  ravages  of  time,  and  the  need  that  I 
feel  of  calmness  and  repose  indicates  that  my  strength  is  diminishing, 
and  that  the  moment  of  my  long  sleep  is  not  far  distant. 

"  You  will  find  the  beginning  of  my  letter  very  sad.  It  is  because  I 
have  another  afiliction  to  add  to  those  of  the  past ;  my  poor  niece  is 
dead.  This  poor  child  held  no  very  prominent  ])art  in  my  life,  but 
she  was  mild  and  good,  and  she  loved  me.  I  am  quite  overcome  by 
this  new  grief;  it  awakens  the  many  bitter  memories  that  are  laid  up 
in  my  heart.     I,ife  is  a  sad  thing.     I  don't  know  why  we  cling  to  it. 

"Be  patient,  resigned,  and  courageous,  my  dear,  but  above  all, 
raise  yourself  above  mere  worldly  motives,  which  have  always  too 
great  an  influence  on  your  decisions.  Of  what  importance  will  be 
the  judgments  of  nven  at  the  end  of  life  ?  When  the  moment  of  eter- 
nal repose  draws  near,  all  our  plans  will  come  to  an  end,  everything 
that  we  leaned  on  will  give  way,  and  we  shall  acknowledge  that  we 
have  worn  out  our  bodies  and  fatigued  our  spirits  in  running  after  chi- 
meras. You  possess  elevated  and  Christian  sentiments ;  sdll  there 
rests  something  in  you  which  savors  strongly  of  the  American.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  you  belong  to  that  woul-d-be  democratic  country, 
where  they  will  allow  no  aristocracy,  but  in  which  there  is  an  inces- 
sant struggle  going  on  between  individuals,  each  one  trying  to  raise 
himself  by  lowering  his  neighbor.  This  jealousy  does  not  exist  in 
France.  Here  everyone  who  hrs  a  good  reputation  and  a  sufficient 
19* 


442 


THEIR  M  iJEST'  ,S   ANE    GENERAL  DIX. 


understanding  can  be  adniitt^  ■  -••■  r  vhere.  We,  the  debris  of  mon- 
archy, are  more  simple,  mo'  oid  of  prejudice,  than  the  famous 
rei)ublicans  of  America.  In  i  •  nee,  pride  and  impertinence  are  only 
to  be  found  among  parvenues  ;  the  real  grands  seigneurs  possess  a 
charming  modesty,  and  do  not  carry  their  heads  as  high  as  the  least 
of  tlie  merchants.  You  can  prove  this  by  the  women  of  your  acquaint- 
ance ;  the  more  illustrious  their  birth,  the  greater  their  sim[)licity ; 
this  is  the  great  charm  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  Do  not  then 
trouble  yourself  too  nmcli  about  your  position  in  America  ;  remember 
that  in  New  York  you  will  be  estimated  in  proportion  to  the  dollars 
you  possess,  rather  than  by  any  virtues  you  may  have. 

"I  see  scarcely  any  Americans  since  you  left  Paris.  You  were  the 
connecting  link  between  them  and  me.  You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall 
not  forget  any  of  your  friends  ;  they  will  always  find  me  disposed  to 
oblige  them.  I  often  see  (leneral  Dix.  I  like  him  very  much,  and 
he  is  much  appreciated  by  the  Emperor  and  Empress.  Rest  assured 
all  your  friends  shall  be  mine,  and  I  shall  consider  it  a  hap[)iness  to 
oblige  them,  because  it  is  a  way  of  proving  my  sincere  affection  for 
you. 

*'  As  to  the  *  *  *  family,  I.  have  only  seen  them  in  the  Champs 
Elysees.  I  met  the  mother  and  daughter  in  a  handsome  carriage, 
with  a  fantastical  coat-of-arms,  surmounted  by  a  Prince's  crown. 
They  saluted  me,  and  I  thought  these  noble  strangers  must  be  mis- 
taken ;  it  was  only  by  searching  diligently  my  memory,  that  I  re- 
membered the  name  of  Madam  *  *  *,  I  inquired  how  it  was  that 
she  could  be  riding  in  so  aristocratic  a  carriage,  and  the  enigma  was 
solved  for  me.  The  daughter  was  going  to  marry  some  Italian,  who, 
like  all  other  of  his  countrymen,  bore  tlie  title  of  Prince.  The  pres- 
ents were  prepared,  the  carriage  bought,  and  the  crown  of  the  future 
Princess  was  placed  on  the  panels ;  but  one  fine  day  they  learned 
that  the  Sicilian  Prince  was  a  Greek,  who  had  neither  fortune  nor 
principality.  The  marriage  was  broken  off,  but  the  crown  and  coat- 
of-arms  still  remain  on  the  coach. 

"  Your  old  friend  Rollin  is  at  his  worpi  When  you  receive  this 
letter  he  will  have  ended  his  sufferings  '"a  this  world. 

"Acce'^t  my  most  tender  remembrances. 

"Laferuiere." 


My  sister  withdrew  her  suit  for  divorce,  and  shortly  afterwards  re- 


Y^r/s  of  nion- 
^»  the  famous 
ence  are  only 
f^f's  possess  a 
as  the  least 
^'""  acqiiaiiit- 
Ir  simplicity- 
I  I)o  not  then 
^ ;  remember 
|o  the  dollars 

'ou  were  the 
"^  that  I  shall 

(lisposed  to 
ty  iinich,  and 
post  assured 
[happiness  to 
affection  for 

the  Champs 
me  carriage, 
'ce's  crown. 
'"St  be  mis- 
.  that  I   re- 
't  u'as  that 
t-'iiigma  was 
'alian,  wlio, 

The  pres- 

the  future 
ey  learned 
"titne  nor 
and  coat- 

ceive  this 


lEKE." 

rards  re- 


MY   OLD   HOME. 


443 


turned  to  her  husband.  I  wrote  to  my  friends  in  Paris,  taking  to 
myself  all  the  credit  of  the  reconciliation,  which  she  and  her  lawyers 
both  declared  1  had  nothing  to  do  with  ;  although  she  has  since  re- 
proached me  for  my  interference,  and  has  told  me  that,  had  it  not 
been  lor  me,  she  would  have  succeeded  in  obtaining  all  she  wished. 

I  had  prayed  constantly  that  they  might  be  reconciled,  and  in  my  heart 
I  attributed  the  peaceful  termination  of  their  quarrel  to  the  hand  of 
God  ;  for  He  smote  them  both  by  the  death  of  one  of  their  children, 
a  bright  fair-haired  boy  of  five  summers.  It  was  after  this  common 
heartfelt  loss,  that  my  sister  consented  to  return  to  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVni. 

BACK   IN   THE    HIGHLANDS. — AUNT   HULDAH  ON    INFALLIBILITY. — THE 
MUCH-COVETED    SPOT   MY   OWN. 

I  WOULD  have  returned  to  France,  but  my  physicians  told  me 
that  my  health  was  too  delicate  to  undertake  such  a  voyage.  One 
evening  I  was  low-spirited  and  dejected,  I  implored  God  to  have 
compassion  on  me  and  to  inspire  me  what  to  do,  and  not  to  abandon 
me.     1  prayed  until  after  midnight,  when  I  at  last  fell  asleep. 

That  night  I  dreamed  that  I  was  once  more  in  the  Highlands  of 
Dutchess,  roaming  over  the  hills,  and  that  my  heart  was  perfectly 
free  and  I  was  as  happy  as  a  child. 

As  soon  as  I  awoke  I  began  to  renew  my  prayer,  that  God  would 
inspire  me  what  to  do ;  when  instantly  my  dream  came  up  before 
me  like  a  vision,  and  I  exclaimed  :  "  It  is  there  I  ought  to  go."  I 
had  never  thought  of  revisiting  the  spot ;  but  I  instantly  seized  the 
idea  as  a  happy  inspiration  sent  to  me  by  God  in  answer  to  my 
prayer,  and  I  decided  at  once  to  go.  I  had  never  heard  from  the 
place  since  I  left  it  ten  years  before. 

I  wrote  immediately  to  one  of  my  cousins,  asking  if  it  were  possi- 
ble for  me  to  obtain  board,  for  a  few  weeks,  with  any  one  residing  on 
the  hill.  That  was  the  only  spot  dear  to  me,  and  the  only  one  I  ever 
cared  to  sec. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  received  an  answer  to  my  letter  saying  that 
my  uncle  Horace  was  dead,  that  my  aunt  Mercy  had  moved  ofi"  the 


,f  ■■ 


il 


444 


MY  BKOTHER. 


hill,  and  was  living  down  in   the  village — that  I  could  obtain  board 
with  a  family  who  lived  in  the  little  cottage  near  the  i)ond. 

This  was  one  of  the  spots  I  most  cherished.  It  was  the  same  lit- 
tle cottage,  that  I  had  looked  upon  in  my  childhood,  and  longed 
to  possess,  and  the  very  same  pond  on  whose  brink  I  used  to  stand, 
and  watch  the  waves  as  they  seemed  to  whisper  to  me  my  father's 
name  ;  and  it  was  on  a  ledge  of  rocks  near  that  pond,  that  I  used  to 
sit  for  hours,  looking  at  the  far-off  hills,  whose  outlines  could  be  but 
dimly  seen,  on  account  of  the  blue  haze,  which  always  seemed  to  en- 
velop them,  as  it  were,  in  a  mysterious  shade.  I  now  longed  again 
to  see  the  beloved  spot,  and  I  replied  by  return  of  mail,  appointing 
the  day  to  meet  me  at  the  train. 

I  left  New  York  for  Amenia  in  the  latter  part  of  June.  I  got  off 
at  Wassaic  station,  and  at  the  moment  1  alighted  from  the  train,  and 
saw  the  old  depot  once  more,  I  recollected  that  it  was  just  ten  years 
since  I  had  stood  there  and  bade  my  Aunt  Mercy  good-by  and  had 
said  to  her  that  it  would  be  ten  years  before  she  would  ever  see  me 
again. 

As  we  pressed  through  the  litUe  village  on  our  way  to  the  hills,  I 
found  everything  just  as  I  had  left  it,  and  even  as  I  had  found  it  twenty 
yearo  bef  re,  when  my  father  brought  me  there  a  child. 

We  stoi)ped  at  Aunt  Huldah's,  ami  I  found  the  old  lady  looking 
just  the  same,  excepting  that  her  step  was  not  quite  as  quick,  lint 
her  tongue  was  the  very  same  :  it  had  lost  none  of  its  vigor.  She 
did  not  recognize  me  ;  no  one  had  told  her  that  1  was  coming.  The 
moment  I  made  myself  known  to  her,  she  stepped  back,  so  as  to 
take  a  good  look  at  me,  and  then  said,  in  a  sort  of  exclamatory  tone  : 
*•  Lord  sakes  !  where  did  you  get  all  those  fine  clothes  from  ?  "  Said 
I  :  "  Never  mind  my  clothes,  aunty,  but  tell  me  how  my  brother  is." 
*'  Your  brother,"  she  replied,  "has  gone  and  made  a  fool  of  himself, 
and  thrown  himself  away.  He  has  gone  and  got  married  to  a 
Catholic  girl,  and  she  got  around  him  and  made  him  jin'i  her  church 
before  she  would  have  him,  and  that  is  just  how  it  is." 

"  What,"  I  exclaimed,  "  my  brother  a  Roman  Catholic  !  "  and  I 
immediately  recollected  that  this  was  one  of  the  things  I  had  asked 
for  at  the  altar,  immediately  after  I  w;'  baptized.  "  J  am  rejoiced," 
said  I,  "  to  hear  that  my  brother  is  a  Catholic  ;  for  I  am  a  Catholif; 
myself."  '"What,"  she  rei)lied,  "you  don't  mean  to  say  that  they 
have  got  around  you  too  ?     Well,  I  hope  they  will  not  make  such  a 


WAS  NOAH   A   CATHOLIC? 


445 


ficl  obtain  board 
I'ond. 

ps  the  same  lit, 
^^h    and  longed 
"sed  to  stand, 
h"e  my  father's 
I  that  I  used  to 
es  could  be  but 
seemed  to  en- 
hv  longed  again 
Jiad,  appointing 

^'"e.  I  got  off 
1  the  train,  and 
s  jiist  ten  years 
)od-by  and  had 
W  ever  see  nie 

'  to  the  hills,  I 
found  it  twenty 

fJ  Jady  looking 
IS  quick.      Jjiit 
ts  vigor.     She 
connng.    'Die 
Ijack,  so  as  to 
iiiatory  tone  : 
''""'  ?  "     Said 
y  brother  is." 
ol  of  himself, 
»arried    to   a 
'-  her  church 

l'<^  ■'  "  and  f 
^  liad  asked 
"  rejoiced," 
'  a  Catholic 
y  that  they 
lake  such  a 


fool  of  you  as  they  have  of  him.  Their  meeting-house  is  six  miles 
off,  and  your  brother  walks  it  sometimes,  for  his  wife  won't  let  him  go 
to  our  meeting  any  more.  Humph  !  the  Catholics  say  that  (iod  takes 
care  of  their  church,  and  they  will  never  come  down,  for  God  will 
never  let  them.  Well,  He  did  not  prevent  them  all  going  under  once." 
"  When  was  that  ,•*  "  I  asked.  "  If  yoii  ever  read  your  Bible  you 
would  know,"  answered  Aunt  Huldah  ;  "at  the  time  of  Noah's  ark. 
Noah  and  his  family  were  the  only  ones  that  were  saved,  and  they 
were  not  Catholics." 

I  burst  out  laughing,  and  said :  "  There  were  no  Catholics  then, 
aunty  ;  if  there  had  been,  Noah  would  have  been  one."  "  Don't  think," 
she  replied,  "  that  you  are  coming  back  here  to  teach  me  Scripture,  for 
I  read  it  before  you  were  born."  Said  '  :  "  Let  us  talk  about  oome- 
thing  else.  I  have  come  here  to  stay  a  few  weeks.  I  am  rich."  At 
that  she  jpened  her  eyes,  and  asked  me  to  sit  down.  I  continued  : 
"•  I  expect  the  people  around  here  will  tear  me  to  pieces.  But  I 
have  come  back  to  see  the  country,  and  not  the  folks,  and  I  hope 
you  will  not  join  in  with  the  rest."  Said  she  :  "  I  will  stand  by  you  ; 
for  I  like  people  who  know  how  to  get  along  in  the  world.  But  tell 
me  where  you  got  your  money  from.  We  saw  in  the  papers  that  you 
went  to  court,  and  that  you  had  on  diamonds  and  pearls ;  and  they 
all  say  around  here  that  the  Emperor  gave  them  to  you ;  how  did 
you  manage  to  get  in  with  such  a  big  man  ?  " 

"  Those  are  all  lies,"  said  1 :  "  I  made  my  money  by  speculating  ; 
but  just  because  I  am  a  woman,  people  are  envious  of  my  success, 
and  they  will  not  give  me  credit  for  knowing  more  than  themselves. 
But  you  know  how  it  is  with  the  St.  Johns,  they  are  all  enter- 
prising." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  '*  all  but  your  father  ;  and  I  always  thought 
that  you  would  make  another  spendthrift,  just  like  him,  and  give 
your  last  cent  away  to  the  first  trooper  that  came  along.  Well,  now,  if 
you  have  got  money,  keep  it,  and  don't  go  to  fooling  it  away. 

*'  I  always  said  that  you  were  a  St.  John,  and  you  have  proved  it 
by  your  smartness."  "  Don't  you  think  I  look  like  them  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Well,  I  kinder  think  you  do,  but  anybody  can  see  that  you  have 
been  steady,  for  you  look  as  young  as  you  ever  did." 

I  returned  !ier  the  compliment,  and  after  making  her  reiterate  her 
promise  to  defend  me,  whe'.iever  she  heard  me  abused,  I  jumped  into 
the  wagon,  and  we  drove  towards  the  hills.     The  moment  that  I  got 


n'S 


446' 


A  RETROSPECT  OF  BETSY  DOT. 


a  sight  of  the  old  big  hill,  was  one  of  tlie  happiest  moments  that  I  had 
known  for  years,  and  the  pure  fresh  air,  that  1  inhaled,  seemed  to  in- 
fuse into  me  a  new  life.  We  passed  my  uncle's  cottage,  which  was 
now  occui)ied  by  strangers.  I  threw  it  a  hasty  glance,  but  had  no 
desire  to  go  in.  Betsy  Dot  was  sitting  with  her  back  towards  tiie 
window :  she  was  at  her  loom,  in  the  same  position  in  which  1  had 
left  her  ten  years  before. 

We  then  passed  the  spring,  and  when  just  a  little  beyond  it,  my 
eyes  happened  to  fall  on  a  little  thick  white  marble  stone,  about  six 
inches  square,  which  was  planted  in  the  earth,  by  the  side  of  the 
road  ;  and  on  its  top  were  cut  out  two  letters — N.  Y.  Thought  I  to 
myself:  "This  is  something  new;"  and  I  began  to  wonder  if  they 
had  buried  a  dog  there,  and  had  given  him  a  monument.  The 
thought  had  hardly  occurred  to  me,  when  the  man  said :  "  Now  we 
are  across  the  line."  "What  does  that  mean?"  said  I.  "Why," 
said  he,  "  have  you  been  in  France  so  long  that  you  have  forgotten 
your  English?  'Across  the  line'  means,  that  we  are  out  of  York 
State  into  Connecticut."  I  never  knew  before  that  the  whole  coun- 
try did  not  He  in  "  York  "  State. 

We  had  not  yet  reached  the  cottage,  when  I  missed  the  large 
chestnut-tree,  under  which  I  sat  the  day  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
shoemaker's,  the  afternoon  that  my  aunt  refused  to  let  me  come  into  tiie 
house,  unless  I  would  consent  to  be  whipped.  The  tree  had  been 
cut  down  even  with  the  fence,  and  formed  a  part  of  it.  The  trees 
had  grown  up  around  the  little  cottage,  and  gave  it  an  air  of  modest 
reserve  which  lent  it  an  additional  charm. 

The  moment  I  entered,  my  whole  soul  was  filled  with  those  same 
buoyant  feelings  that  I  had  felt  in  my  youth,  and  I  raised  my  heart  to 
God,  and  thanked  him  for  having  inspired  me  to  come  and  visit  this 
.place  again.  The  same  evening  that  I  arrived,  I  drove  down  to  the 
village  to  see  my  Aunt  Mercy.  She  did  not  recognize  me,  and  was 
very  much  moved  when  I  pronounced  my  name.  She  was  in  ill 
health.  I  remained  with  her  but  a  few  moments,  and  left  her,  prom- 
ising to  return  and  see  her  again  in  a  few  days. 

I  wrote  to  Laferridre  that  I  was  once  more  among  my  beloved  hills, 
that  I  was  hourly  gaining  strength,  but  that  I  doubted  whether  1 
would  be  well  enough  to  return  to  France  before  the  F'all.  I  gave 
him  a  description  of  the  state  of  my  health,  and  requested  him  to 
show  it  to  Dr.  Houilleau,  in  Paris,  and  to  telegraph  me  his  prescrip- 


I   BUY   THE   LITTLE   COTTAGE. 


kntsthatlhad 
I,  seemed  to  in. 
hs*^,  which  was 
(ce,  buf  had  )io 
t^k  towards  the 
fn  which  1  had 

beyond  it,  my 
tone,  about  six 
he  side  of  the 
Thought  I  to 
wonder  if  they 
•nunient.     7'he 
lid:  "Now  we 
d  I.     "\Yhy;> 
have  forgotten 
re  out  of  York 
le  whole  coun- 

issed  the  large 
my  way  to  the 
e  come  into  the 
tree  had  been 
't-  The  trees 
air  of  modest 

h  those  same 
d  my  heart  to 
and  visit  this 
down  to  tlie 
me,  and  was 
e  was  in  ill 
ft  her,  prom- 

•eloved  hills, 
1  whether  1 
ilJ.  I  gave 
ted  him  to 
lis  prescrip. 


447 


tion,  and  I  said  I  would  telegraph  him  back  its  effect.  I  thought  that, 
with  the  country  air  and  proper  treatment,  I  would  soon  be  able  to 
return. 

Ever  since  I  had  come  to  the  cottage,  as  soon  as  I  left  my  room, 
I  would  go  and  stand  on  the  to[)  of  the  trunk  of  the  old  chestnut 
tree,  and  would  converse  with  God,  the  same  as  I  used  to  do  in  my 
little  bed-room  in  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois ;  and  I  never  came  down 
from  it,  without  exclaiming ;  "  O  Lord,  may  I  triumph  over  my 
enemies,  as  much  higher  as  I  now  stand  above  the  trunk  of  this  tree, 
or  as  much  higher  as  this  tree  formerly  stood  above  me  !  " 

One  morning  as  I  was  standing  on  its  trunk,  I  began  thinking 
about  the  troubles  hi  Paris,  and  thought  how  nice  it  would  be  to  fly 
to  such  a  spot  as  this,  if  there  was  ever  another  reign  of  terror  in 
France. 

The  more  I  thought  it  over,  the  more  probable  it  appeared  to  me 
that  it  might. really  come  to  pass,  and  I  wished  that  I  owned  the 
place,  so  as  to  be  prepared  for  such  an  emergency.  The  very 
thought  of  flying  there,  and  hiding  myself  with  Ixiferriore  in  those 
wildwoods,  ajjpeared  to  me  like  a  vision  of  terrestrial  bliss. 

These  thoughts  rushed  through  my  mind  quicker  than  I  can  re- 
late them,  and,  last  of  all,  came  the  recollection  of  the  time  tl.at  I 
sat  under  the  old  tree,  when  I  was  a  penniless  child,  and  how  I  had 
coveted  the  possession  of  such  a  home  as  that  little  white  cottage. 
As  soon  as  that  recollection  came  back,  I  ran  into  the  house  and 
asked  the  man  how  nuich  he  would  take  for  his  farm.  He  told  me 
his  price,  and  I  at  once  agreed  to  purchase  it. 

The  moment  I  bought  the  place,  I  began  to  feel  that  my  mission  to 
America  was  ended,  and  that  it  was  in  order  to  buy  that  spot  of 
ground  that  God  had  inspired  me  to  return  to  the  United  States. 

A  few  days  after  the  papers  were  signed,  I  received  the  following 
letter  from  Laferri6re  : 

"  Chateau  de  Fi.iicnEREs. 
"Mv  Dear  Child, 

"  I  have  just  arrived  at  Fl^ch^res  from  the  Conseil  General.  I 
shall  leave  for  Paris  to-morrow.  I  take  advantage  of  my  few 
moments  of  rest  at  home  to  write  to  you. 

"  I  congratulate  you  heartily  on  the  success  of  your  mission  :  you 
have  obtained  an  unlooked  for  result,  you  have  done  a  good  and  no- 
ble action,  and  the  gratification  that  you  must  feel  on  account  of  it, 


448 


FRENCH   MEN,  AMERICAN   WOMEN. 


J   ■■'. 


will  repay  for  the  pain,  the  fatigue,  and  the  trouble  you  have  en- 
dured. • 

"  As  to  your  sister,  far  from  loving  you  for  the  service  you  have 
rendered  her,  she  will  detest  you  the  more.  But  what  does  it  inatiei? 
You  did  not  expect  any  good  from  her :  there  is  nothing  to  be  looked 
for  but  deception  on  her  part.  You  were  animated  by  religious 
and  noble  motives,  you  were  thinking  of  the  future  of  the  children, 
the  innocent  victims  of  their  parents'  disputes,  —  you  ha\e  pre- 
vented the  rupture  of  the  family  ties,  your  task  is  fulfilled  ;  C.od 
and  all  honest  men  will  be  pleased  with  it,  that  is  the  essential  thing; 
you  have  the  consciousness  of  having  acted  well,  and  this  into -or 
satisfaction  is  a  reward  superior  to  all  other. 

"  Now  that  your  difficult  mission  is  ended,  and  the  season  renders 
the  sea  more  calm,  I  await  with  impatience  the  announcement  of 
your  return. 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  Mesdames  — • .     1  do 

not  see  diem.  I  have  struck  off  all  the  Americans  from  my  list,  ex- 
cept those  you  recommended  to  me.  As  for  the  others  of  your  com- 
patriots, I  have  no  intercourse  with  them,  for  two  reasons  :  the  first 
is,  they  would  not  amuse  me  ;  the  second,  which  is  moi'e  serious,  is 
because  you  are  sure  to  meet  at  their  houses  Frenchmen  who  come 
from  no  one  knows  where,  and  who  are  taken  to  be  des  grands  seii^- 
neurs.  You  know  I  am  the  most  modest  of  men, — I  do  not  ask  a 
title  of  nobility  for  every  one, — but  I  do  ask  honorable  antecedents  for 
all.  The  greater  part  of  the  elegants,  who  are  admitted  to  intimacy 
among  your  fair  countrywomen,  are  sharj^ers  whom  an  honest  man 
cannot  and  ought  not  to  know. 

"But  I  find  the  American  ladies  very  ill-informed,  and  if  you  speak 
to  them  on  any  subject  but  love,  they  don't  know  v/hat  they  are  talk- 
ing about.  I  would  get  my  eyes  scratched  out  for  this  opinion  if  I 
ever  set  foot  on  the  soil  of  the  new  world. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  being  among  the  beautiful  and  wild  inoun- 
tahis,  which  recall  the  impressions  of  your  infancy.  We  return  will- 
ingly to  recollections  of  that  t'me  of  ignorance  and  innocence  ;  we 
recall  with  joy  the  thousand  nothings  of  our  first  years  ;  it  makes  us 
smile  to  think  of  the  tears  we  shed  for  so  little  cause.  The  trou- 
bles of  that  time  appear  very  small  compared  to  the  hardships  of 
life  ;  and  we  draw  this  conclusion,  that  the  saddest  things,  viewed  at 
a  certain  distance,  fade  away,  and  become  almost  indifferent.    There- 


EiV. 


lubl 


AUiNT   MERCY. 


449 


'  I 


<-'  you  have  en- 

e  service  yon  h^VQ 
rliat  doesit/iuuici? 
Uhing  to  be  looked 
[iiated  by  religious 
[e  of  the  children^ 
—  you    ha\e  pre- 
is  fulfillecl ;  (Jod 
Hie  essential  thing; 
Jll,  and  this  intei'or 

the  season  renders 
annoiuicenient  of 

« .     I  do 

s  from  ni)'  list,  ex- 
tliers  of  vQiir  com- 
reasons:  the  first 
is  more  serious,  is 
ichmen  who  come 
e  (fes  grands  sci<^- 
-f  do  not  ask  a 
>le  antecedents  for 
litted  to  intimacy 
1  an  honest  man 

and  if  you  sjjcak 
liat  they  are  talk- 
tbis  opinion  if  I 

and  wild  mouii- 
We  return  will- 
innocence  ;  we 

•■s  ;  it  makes  us 

'«<^-     'i'he  trou- 

e  hardships  of 

ings,  viewed  at 

fiferent.    There- 


fore we  must  never  yield  to  the  extreme  of  despair  ;  for  it,  like  every- 
thmg  else,  yields  to  time. 

"  You  must  positively  send  me  your  country  address, — for  where 
shall  I  send  a  telegram  from  Dr.  liouilleau,  if  I  consult  him  ?  It 
seems  to  me  a  very  singular  idea,  very  American,  to  be  treated  by 
cable.  If  you  insist  upon  it,  I  must  satisfy  you,  spoilt  child ;  but  I 
have  kept  the  letter  intended  for  the  Doctor,  until  I  hear  more  from 
you  ;  so  1  beg  you  to  reply  to  my  request. 

"  I  send  you  my  love,  dear  child,  my  yiost  affectionate  remeni^ 
brances,  and  the  assurance  of  my  faithful  and  tender  friendship. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  LAFERRlfeRE." 

This  letter  amused  me,  for  I  had  nearly  forgotten  all  about  my 
sister  and  her  suit,  which  everybody  in  France  believed  had  induced 
nie  to  come  to  America.  My  head  was  now  full  of  nothing  but  my 
farm.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  convinced  I  became  that 
God  had  brought  me  to  New  York  to  purchase  that  little  spot  of 
earth,  and  that  He  had  destined  it  for  me,  since  the  day  that  I  had 
sat  before  the  cottage  and  wished  that  I  had  just  such  a  home  to  my 
self. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIX. 


RKSTITUTION    AND    RETRIBUTION. 


After  the  first  day  I  arrived  I  never  went  to  see  Aunt  Mercy ;  so 
many  things  were  repeated  to  me  which  Aunt  Mercy  had  said  against 
me,  that  I  never  cared  to  call  on  her.  Among  other  things,  when  she 
heard  that  I  had  paid  Hetsy  Dot  five  dollars  for  bewitching  her  loom. 
Aunt  Mercy  declared  that  if  I  gave  Betsy  a  thousand  dollars  it  would 
never  pay  her  for  all  the  sighs  and  tears  that  I  had  caused  her  to 
heave  and  shed. 

When  this  remark  was  repeated  to  nie  I  protested  that  Aunt  Mercy 
placed  too  high  a  value  on  Betsy's  sighs  and  tears.  "  For,"  said  I,  "  I'll 
bet  that  slie  will  take  twenty-five  cents  for  them,  and  consider  her- 
self well  [)aid  at  that."  So  the  next  day  the  man  with  whose  family 
I  boarded  went  with  me  to  see  Mrs.  Dot,  and  we  found  her  in  the 
loom.     1  read  to  her  a  paper  I  had  1  ought  with  me  and  told  her  that, 


450 


A   RECEIPT   IN   FULL. 


if  she  would  sign  it,  I  would  give  her  twenty-five  cents.  She  readily 
agreed  to  do  so.  The  paper  ran  thus  : — "Received  from  Mrs.  L.  St. 
John  Eckel  twenty-five  cents  in  full  payment  for  all  the  sighs  and 
tears  that  she  has  ever  caused  me  to  heave  or  shed."  She  signed  it, 
the  man  endorsed  it,  and  1  gave  the  paper  to  his  wife,  to  show  Aunt 
Mercy  that  she  placed  a  much  higher  value  on  IJetsy  Dot's  sighs  and 
tears  than  Betsy  Dot  did  herself. 

But  a  very  little  while  after  my  uncle  Horace's  death.  Aunt  Mercy 
had  been  married  to  a  man  who  had  no  religious  convictions.  1 
was  told  that  my  aunt  had  confided  to  some  of  her  friends  that  she 
suflered  intensely  around  the  heart,  and  it  was  all  caused  by  trouble ; 
that  she  was  jealous  of  her  husband,  and  that  no  tongue  could  tell 
how  wretf.hed  at  times  she  was  and  how  her  heart  pained  her.  Every- 
body knew,  however,  that  her  present  husband  was  kind  and  devoted 
to  her  ;  yet,  notwithstanding  all  that,  she  was  jealous  of  him,  and 
that  jealousy  made  her  miserable. 

When  this  was  told  to  me,  I  looked  upon  it  as  retribution,  that  God 
had  permitted  that  feeling  to  be  excited  in  her  bosom,  as  a  punish- 
ment for  all  die  sorrow  she  had  given  my  husband  ;  for  few  were  the 
happy  days  he  ever  knew,  from  the  hour  she  awakened  the  demon 
of  jealousy  in  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  XC. 


THE    SACRIFICE. 


I  SAILED  for  France  in  the  latter  part  of  September.  When  I  arrived 
in  Paris,  I  found  it  almost  deserted.  Laferrifire  was  at  his  chateau. 
Rollin  and  other  friends  whom  I  had  left  in  good  health' were  dead. 
I  became  low  spirited  ;  and  for  the  first  two  weeks  I  passed  nearly  all 
my  time  at  St.  Genevieve's  altar,  or  ut  our  Lady  of  Victoires. 

Notre  Dame  des  Victoires  is  situated  in  the  vicinity  of  the  theatres 
and  opera  houses.  There  are  evening  services  in  that  church  every 
night  in  the  year.  It  was  seldom  that  I  ever  arrived  at  the  opera  or 
the  theatre  until  after  nine  o'clock  ;  for  I  almost  invariably  attended 
the  services  at  Notre  Dame  des  Victoires  first. 

I  would  leave  my  opera  cloak  in  the  carriage,  aiid  pu'  on  a  large 
waterproof,  with  a  hood,  which  I  would  throw  over  my  head.  Thus 
my  hair,  which  was  usually  sparkling  with  gems,  my  bare  neck  and 


white  dres 

crowd  un( 

About  t 

Ills  chatea 

every  attei 

make  nie 

found,  evt 

of  hini,- 

that  he  b( 

every  day 

One  e\ 

tories,  I  1 

heart  wa^ 

ise  to  Ci< 

the  first  < 

sion  of  a 

firm  reso 

to  despa 

into  it  b 

my  conf 

i)c.ck  ag 

ill  that  ] 

to  conci 

but  I  di 

One   e^ 

1  had  1 

passed 

band,  I 

"  you  i 

you  ar' 

that  y 

almost 

1,  "if 

whole 

"A 

woulc 

the  n 

lutioi 

vant 


[t.s.  She  readily 
lioiii  Mrs.  L.  St, 
[11  tlie  sighs  and 
She  signed  it, 
-',  to  show  Aunt 
J^ot's  sighs  and 

th,  Aunt  Mercy 
convictions,  j 
friends  that  she 
|ised  by  trouble; 
"igue  could  tell' 
ed  her.  Kvery- 
ind  and  devoted 
"s  cf  him,  and 

>ution,  that  God 
•ni,  as  a  punish- 
or  [qw  were  the 
ned  the  demon 


^Vhen  I  arrived 
at  his  chateau. 
1th'  were  dead, 
ssed  nearly  all 
toires. 

3f  the  theatres 
church  every 
"■  the  opera  or 
ably  attended 

"'  on  a  large 
head.  Thus 
re  neck  and 


OUR  L/DY 


OF  VICTORIES. 


451 


white  dress,  were  entirely  concealed,  and  I  would  pass  among  the 
crowd  unobserved. 

About  ten  days  after  my  arrival  in  Paris,  I^aferriere  returnei'  from 
his  chateau.  He  was  overjoyed  to  see  me,  and  showered  ui)on  me 
every  attention  and  kindness ;  but  nothing  that  he  could  do  for  me  could 
make  me  hapjjy.  The  only  consolation,  the  only  real  hap])iness  I 
found,  even  then,  was  in  prayer.  I  was  always  sad  when  I  thought 
of  him, — was  sadder  too  when  I  was  with  him, — and  the  bounties  ^ 
that  he  bestowed  upon  me  made  me  miserable,  because  I  loved  him 
every  day  more  and  more. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  praying  before  the  altar  of  our  Lady  of  Vic- 
tories, I  had  made  a  firm  resolve  to  live  a  more  i^erfect  life.  My 
heart  was  wrung  with  repentance  ;  and,  after  making  a  solemn  prom- 
ise to  God  that  I  would  try  and  sin  no  more,  I  rose  and  went  into 
the  first  confessional  I  came  to,  and  made  a  humble  sincere  confes- 
sion of  all  my  sins.  I  told  the  priest  of  my  deep  remorse,  and  my 
firm  resolve  to  lead  a  more  perfect  life,  no  matter  if  I  should  be  driven 
to  despair  ;  for  my  excuse  was,  whenever  I  did  wrong,  that  I  was  led 
into  it  by  the  anguish  of  a  disappointed  affection.  After  I  had  made 
my  confession,  the  priest  gave  me  his  blessing,  and  told  me  to  come 
ijick  again.  This  drove  me  nearly  wild.  I  went  home,  and  was  so 
ill  that  I  was  obliged  to  keep  my  bed.  Laferridre  implored  me  not 
to  conceal  from  him  what  it  was  that  preyed  so  nnich  upon  my  mind  ; 
but  I  did  not  like  to  tell  him  that  a  priest  had  refused  me  absolution. 
One  evening,  just  to  change  the  conversation,  I  told  him  that 
1  had  purchased  a  little  home  among  the  beloved  hills  where  I 
passed  my  childhood.  If  I  had  announced  to  him  my  future  hus- 
band, he  could  not  have  been  more  surprised.  "  Then,"  said  he, 
"you  intend  to  leave  me,  and  abandon  me  for  those  woodlands  that 
you  are  always  raving  about."  "  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  I  intend  one  day 
tliat  you  and  I  shall  go  and  live  there  together."  Said  he :  "  I  am 
almost  inclined  to  think  that  you  have  lost  your  mind."  "  But,"  said 
I,  *'  if  there  is  a  revolution,  and  the  Emperor  is  dethroned,  and  the 
whole  of  you  are  exiled,  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  fly  with  you  there  ! " 

"Ah,"  he  answered,  '■'•  pativre  Empereur !  do  you  think  that  I 
would  ever  abandon  him?  His  fortune  is  my  fortune.  If  ever,  for 
the  misfortune  of  France  and  the  world,  he  should  fall  before  a  revo- 
lution, I  would  fall  with  him.  My  destiny  is  link«^d  with  his ;  the  ser- 
vant of  his  happy  days  will  be  his  devoted  servant  still  in  the  days  of 


i!V:1-'l 


.M 


452 


I   WILL,    LORD. 


"'■  <  : 


misfortune.  It  is  not  then  that  I  would  abandon  him.  Would 
you  abandon  me  in  the  hour  of  adversity?  "  My  answer  was  a  tlood 
of  tears,  which  spoke  the  devotedness  of  my  heart. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "no  sooner  would  I  abaiulon  him,  than  you 
would  me.  liut  why  should  you  have  bought  a  home  in  .Aiiuiiica? 
You  certainly  intend  to  go  there  to  live."  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  1  bought  it 
under  an  inspiration.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  bought  it  ;  but  I  felt  that  I 
was  doing  right.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  the  idea  that  we  will  one 
day  live  there  together." 

He  left  me  that  evening  feeling  so  sad  that  he  could  hardly 
restrain  his  tears  when  he  bade  me  good-night.  The  next  day  I  gii;\v 
more  despondent,  and  each  succeeding  day  only  increased  my  de- 
pression. At  the  end  of  the  week  1  rose  from  my  bed,  and  drove  to 
our  Lady  of  Victories.  This  time  the  priest  gave  me  absolution  :  but 
he  refused  to  let  me  receive  holy  communion,  and  told  me  to  come 
again  in  another  week.  I  wept  and  implored  him  to  have  mercy 
on  me,  told  him  how  ill  I  was,  and  that  he  was  killing  me ;  but  he 
remained  inexorable. 

The  next  morning  I  had  a  raging  fever.  T<aferri6re  came.  He  had 
seen  my  physician,  who  told  him  that  it  was  nothing  but  grief  that 
made  me  so  ill.  He  did  nothing  but  scold  me,  for  being  so  sad  and 
discontented  when  I  had  everything  to  make  me  happy.  All  that  he 
said  only  served  to  exasperate  me  and  make  me  worse.  I  prayed 
constantly  that  God  would  inspire  me  what  to  do  in  order  to  bring 
l)eace  again  to  my  soul. 

One  evening  I  was  kneeling  in  my  bed,  making  that  same  request, 
and  continued  repeating  it  for  hours.  The  clock  struck  one.  I 
threw  myself  back  on  my  pillow,  and  tried  to  sleep  ;  but  I  was  seized 
again  with  such  feelings  of  des[)air,  that  I  instantly  arose,  and  kneel- 
ing again  in  my  bed,  I  recommenced  praying  and  imploring  God, 
iriore  fervently  than  ever,  to  have  mercy  on  me. 

At  last  I  exclaimed :  "  O  beloved  Jesus,  have  mercy  on  me,  and 
inspire  me  what  to  do,  that  I  may  be  hapjiy  once  more."  I  repeated 
those  same  words  aloud  twice,  and  as  I  was  about  to  utter  them  for 
the  third  time,  I  heard  a  voice  within  me  distinctly  say:  "Give  iin 
Laferri6re."  1  instantly  replied  :  "I  will,  Lord;" — and  immediately 
my  soul  was  calmed,  and  I  ex[)ericnced  that  same  joy,  and  that  same 
peace,  which  I  had  felt  at  the  moment  of  my  conversion.  I  was  sure 
that  God  had  spoken  to  me,  and  told  me  to  give  up  Laferridre. 


pn   him.     ^r,,,,^ 
f'i"-swer  was  a  /ioo,| 

[<'""  hhu,  than  you 

bl't    I    felt    (h;U   [ 

-^  that  we  will  one 

^^  conid  hanlly 
he  next  day  f.,,,, 
Jncreased  i„v  de- 
bed,  and  drove  to 
|e  absolution .-  but 
'  told  nie  to  come 
m  to  have  mercy 
Idling  nie ;  but  he 

re  came.    He  had 
"g  but  grief  that 
being  so  sad  and 
PPy-     All  that  he 
I^O'-se-     I  prayed 
'n  order  to  bring 

at  same  request, 
struct  one.  f 
^"t  I  was  seized 
';ose,  and  kneel- 
''"ploring  God, 

rcy  on  me,  and 
■•"     I  rejjeated 
"tter  them  for 
^y-  "Give  „„ 
(J  Jiiimediately 
and  that  same 
'•     I  was  sure 
ferridre. 


I    KEKP    MY    WORD. 


453 


I  instantly  got  out  of  bed,  lit  the  lamp,  took  my  writing  materials 
and  wrote  until  morning. 

1  made  a  brief  sketch  of  my  acquaintance  with  Laferritire,  and  how 
wretched  I  had  been,  since  he  had  told  me  that  I  could  not  be  his 
wile,  while  his  daughter  lived  ;  that  I  had  never  known  a  really  happy 
hour  since.  After  writing  a  long  letter,  in  a  cool,  determined,  deliber- 
ate style,  I  forbade  him  ever  coming  to  see  me  again  unless  I  wrote 
to  him  to  come, 

I  knew  that  God  had  spoken  to  me,  and  diat  He  had  told  me  to 
give  him  up.  I  instantly  consented,  for  I  thought  that  He  meant 
that  I  was  to  give  him  up  only  for  a  tvliile,  and  I  believed  that,  if  I 
obeyed  God,  He  would  finally  unite  us  before  His  altar.  I  could  not 
imagine  any  other  happiness  on  earth  than  to  be  wedded  to  Laferri^re. 

Laferriere  wrote  me  a  kind  and  affectionate  letter  in  reply,  attribut- 
ing all  that  I  had  written  to  him  to  a  state  of  nervous  excitement.  He 
hoi)ed  that  his  few  words  would  find  me  peaceful  and  calm,  and  that 
1  would  send  a  message  by  the  bearer  of  this  note  appointing  an 
hour  for  him  to  call. 

There  was  a  great  struggle  then  between  nature  and  the  fear  of 
God.  But  1  dared  not  disobey  the  voice  that  I  had  heard  speak  with- 
in me  that  night ;  for  I  firmly  believed  that  it  was  the  voice  of  God, 
and  I  feared  to  disobey  it,  lest  God  would  never  permit  me  to  marry 
Laferriere.  I  believed  that  of  myself  I  could  do  nothing,  but  that  the 
destiny  of  all  mankind  was  in  His  hands.  Thus  I  succeeded  in  over- 
coming nature,  and  I  answered  Laferriere's  letter,  telling  him  that  I 
was  fully  resolved  not  to  see  him  ;  and  I  begged  him  not  to  call  at  the 
abbey,  for  I  would  not  receive  him. 

No  sooner  had  his  messenger  left  than  I  shed  a  flood  of  tears. 
Yet  I  did  not  regret  what  I  had  written  :  I  only  deplored  that  I  was 
forced  to  do  it.  I  knew  I  had  done  right,  for  my  conscience  ap- 
proved of  my  action ;  but  I  was  miserable  that  God  should  exact  of 
me  such  a  sacrifice.,  before  he  would  let  me  reach  the  goal  of  earthly 
happiness. 

In  a  {q'n  days  I  was  well  enough  to  leave  my  room,  and  I  repaired 
to  our  Lady  of  Victories.  The  priest  still  refused  to  let  me  receive 
holy  communion,  and  told  me  to  return  again  in  another  week. 
This  was  too  much  for  my  feeble  condition  to  bear,  and  I  nearly 
fainted  in  the  confessional.  For  an  instant  all  my  strength  failed 
me.     He  closed  the  grating  of  the  confessional,  and  heard  a  confes- 


H 


S'    I 


■'■  ; 


454 


OBEDIENCE  AND   SACRIFICE. 


sion  on  the  other  side  ;  then  opening  on  the  side  where  I  was,  he 
became  extremely  abusive,  when  he  found  that  I  was  still  kneeling 
there  ;  for  he  thought  that  I  remained  from  obstinacy.  AVhen  I  tried 
to  assure  him  that  I  had  not  the  strength  to  leave,  that  he  had 
nearly  killed  me  by  refusing  me  this  time,  he  roughly  replied  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  see  any  such  affectation  in  the  confessional ; 
that  he  doubted  my  sincerity,  for  if  1  was  as  anxious  to  do  right 
as  I  pretended  to  be,  God  would  give  me  the  strength  to  obey; 
that  my  obedience  would  be  as  acceptable  to  God  as  if  I  received 
Holy  Communion ;  "  But  so  long  as  I  see  you  hesitate  to  be  obe- 
dient," said  he,  "just  so  long  vvia  I  doubt  that  you  are  worthy 
of  receiving  Holy  Conununion,"  I  instantly  rose  and  left  the 
church. 

When  1  reached  the  Abbey,  I  found  I^aferrifire's  valet  waiting  for 
me  with  a  note,  in  which  he  begged  me  to  name  an  hour  for  him  to 
call. 

I  wrote  on  the  back  of  the  envelope  ^^  Never,"  and  told  the  valet 
to  take  it  to  his  master. 


CHAPTER   XCI. 


MONTESQUIEU   AND   THE   JESUITS. 

The  next  morning  the  Count  de  Clesieux  called  on  me.  He  had 
not  seen  me  since  1  returned,  and  was  struck  with  the  great  change 
in  me.  The  Count  was  a  fervent  Catholic.  He  had  founded  an 
agricultural  school  at  St.  llan,  Brittany,  where  he  supported  several 
hundred  orphan  boys  at  his  own  expense  or  through  his  own  ex- 
ertions. I  told  him  that  I  had  broken  off  with  Laferri^re,  and  he 
congratulated  me  with  all  his  heart.  I  then  told  him  the  reason  I 
was  so  sad,  because  a  priest  refused  to  let  me  receive  Holy 
Communion  ;  and  I  related  to  him  the  whole  affair,  except  the  sub- 
stance of  my  first  confession.  He  was  indignant  at  the  .severity  of 
the  priest,  and  begged  me  never  to  return  to  him  again,  but  to  let 
him  introduce  me  to  his  director.  Father  Bazin,  a  Jesuit,  who  lived 
a  few  doors  from  the  Abbaye  aux  Bois. 


A  JESUIT  CONFESSOR. 


455 


I  where  I  was,  he 
|vas  still  kneeling 

\y      ^V^JienltricI 
Jive,   that  he  |,ad 
p'lly  replied  that 
F'k'   confessional; 
j'ions  to  do  right 
[trength  to  obey; 
I  as  if  J  received 
L'sitate  to  be  obe- 
yoii  are  worthy 
|se   and    left    the 


valet 


waiting  for 


li  liour  for  him  to 
N  told  the  valet 


n  me.     He  had 
lie  great  change 
liad  founded  au 
Imported  several 
[h  his  own  ex- 
erri^re,  and  he 
1  the  reason  I 
receive     Holy 
xcept  the  sub- 
he  severity  of 
ain,  but  to  let 
suit,  who  lived 


I  told  him  frankly  that  I  never  wanted  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  Jesuits,  that  I  had  heard  enough  about  them,  and  I  never 
forgot  a  maxim  1  learned  once  in  Montes(iuieu.  "  What,"  he  asked, 
"did  that  blabber  say  that  could  prejudice  you  against  one  of  the 
best  societies  that  ever  existed  for  the  \)r()i)agation  of  the  Kaith  ?  " 
"That  may  be,"  said  I ;  "but  I  like  to  be  let  alone ;  and  it  ai)pears 
that  the  Jesuits  are  bad  fellows  to  get  into  a  quarrel  with,  for  there 
is  no  esca;nng  them." 

"  People  who  do  right  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  Jesuits,"  he 
rei)lied  ;  "  but  ihey  are  a  terrible  power  against  evil-doers."  "  I 
don't  consider  myself  a  piece  of  perfection,"  said  I,  "and  I  think 
it  is  safest  for  me  to  keep  away  from  them."  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  let 
me  hear  Montesquieu's  maxim.  I  remember  having  read  some 
of  his  false  sayings  in  which  there  was  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  ; 
but  I  don't  recollect  any  where  he  refers  particularly  to  the  Jesuits." 

"  Here  is  what  he  says,"  I  rei)lied  :  "  '  I  am  afraid  of  the  Jesuits. 
If  I  offend  a  nobleman,  he  will  forget  me,  I  will  forget  him.  I  can 
go  into  another  province,  into  another  kingdom.  But  if  I  offend  the 
Jesuits  at  Rome,  I  am  sure  to  meet  them  at  Paris.  I  am  surrounded 
by  them  wherever  I  go.  Their  incessant  correspondence  with  one 
another  keeps  alive  their  enmities.'  " 

"  I  would  pay  no  more  attention,"  answered  the  Count,  "  to  what 
Montesquieu  might  say  about  religion  or  its  proj^agators,  than  I 
would  to  the  braying  of  an  ass  ;  for  an  ass  understands  the  Jesuits 
and  the  Christian  tenets  just  about  as  well  as  a  skeptic,  who  only  ad- 
mits the  immortality  of  the  soul  just  because  it  hapi)ens  to  suit  his 
humors  and  self-conceit,  to  believe  himself  immortal  like  God, — and 
such  was  the  illustrious  writer  Montesquieu." 

After  much  persuasion  I  promised  him  that  I  would  permit  him 
to  introduce  Father  Jiazin  to  me.  The  day  following  I  went  to 
Father  liazin  and  made  my  confession,  and  he  gave  me  permission 
to  receive  Holy  Communion.  Father  Bazin  was  an  elderly  priest, 
most  high-bred  and  agreeable  ;  but  from  the  fact  of  his  being  a  Jesuit, 
1  was  suspicious  of  him,  and  told  him  so, — which  only  made  him 
laugh. 

He  told  me  I  ought  to  read  the  life  of  Father  de  Ravignan.  Said  I, 
"Washea  Jesuit  ?"  "  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  and  a  very  holy  one."  "Pll 
wager,"  said  I,  "  that  a  Jesuit  wrote  his  life  too."  "  That  is  very  true," 
he  replied.     "  Well,"  I  said,  "if  I  wanted  to  find  out  the  truth  about 


^.    f    I 


456 


ST.  AUGUSTINE  S   COxNFESSIOXS. 


your  people,  I  would  never  read  the  life  of  u  Jesuit  written  by  a 
Jesuit." 

1  received  the  congratulations  of  all  my  friends  in  the  Faubourg 
for  having  given  up  Laferriere.  He  sent  his  valet  as  usual  every 
morning  to  receive  my  orders.  He  entreated  me  to  receive  liiia  ; 
but  1  was  inflexible.  I  concealed  all  the  pain  and  suffering  of  my 
heart  even  from  Father  Bazin,  to  whom  1  now  went  rcgularlv 
to  confession.  I  also  went  regularly  to  receive  instructions  from  the 
Ladies  of  the  Retreat,  to  whom  I  became  every  day  more  anil  more 
attached.  I  kept  myself  constantly  employed,  and  began  to  study 
Latin,  the  same  as  1  would  have  taken  a  narcotic  to  lull  my  senses 
to  sleep,  in  order  to  forget  Laferriere. 

I  made  everybody  my  teacher.  Father  Bazin,  Mme.  de  la  Chapclle, 
and  every  gentleman  who  called  on  me,  I  would  require  to  teach  me 
something  in  Latin.  Father  Bazin  told  me  to  get  St.  Augustine's 
confessions  to  read.  1  deferred  getting  them,  supposing  it  was  some 
stupid  pious  book,  being  the  confessions  of  a  saint.  Every  time  he 
saw  me,  he  asked  me  if  I  had  got  them. 

One  day,  as  I  was  passing  through  the  quartier  Latin,  on  my  way 
to  the  Pantheon,  to  satisfy  the  Father,  I  bought  the  book,  brought  it 
home  with  me,  and  it  lay  several  days  on  my  table  untouched.  The 
Marquise  de  Ferriere  le  \'ayer  saw  it  lying  there.  She  took  it  up, 
and  said :  "  I  don't  think  that  you  ouglit  to  read  this  book  :  you  are 
too  young."  I  replied  :  "  My  director  told  me  to  read  it."  "  Tlien," 
said  she,  "  you  are  right ;  for  you  should  always  do  what  he  tells  you. 
But  who  is  your  director?" — and  she  gave  me  a  quizzical  glance,  as 
though  she  suspected  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  name  a  par- 
ticular one,  out  of  the  many  I  went  to.  But  I  answered  very  gravely  : 
"  He  is  a  Jesuit,  and  a  very  holy  man  at  that."  She  replied  : 
"  They  are  all  holy  men,  and  1  am  glad  that  you  have  put  yourself 
under  their  guidance.  Of  course  if  he  told  you  to  read  it,  you  ouglu 
to  read  it."  "Well,"  I  answered,  "//<?  certainly  did."  1  could  see, 
by  the  way  she  emphasized  //,  that  she  doubted  that  he  had  told  me 
to  do  any  such  thing. 

As  soon  as  this  lady  left,  my  curiosity  was  excited  to  see  what 
there  was  in  the  book,  that  she  thought  I  was  not  old  enough  to  read  ; 
and  I  began  at  once  to  make  a  habit  of  reading  a  few  chapters  of  it 
every  night  before  going  to  bed. 


Isuit  written  by  a 

j'l  the  Faul,(„„.g 
f  as   usual  every 

to  receive  ]ii,„  . 

suffeiing  of  ,„y 
went  regularly 
inictions  from  (he 
V  "lore  and  more 
P  Ijegan  to  study 
'toJuJlniy  senses 

^e-cIelaChapeile, 

liiire  to  teach  me 

l-'t  St.  Augustine's 

'-^'"g  it  was  some 

i'^very  time  lie 

'f^ift,  on  niy  \vav 
L»ook,  brought  it 
in  touched.     'Jhe 
^'le   took  it  up, 
5  book  :  you  are 
clit."    "Then," 
'lat  lie  tells  you. 
«'t^al  glance,  as 
to  name  a  par- 
d  very  gravely : 
^he   replied  ; 
-'e  i)ut  yourself 
^J  it,  you  ought 
i  could  see, 
e  had  told  me 

fl  to  see  what 
oiightoread; 
chapters  of  it 


A   WRETCHED  TRIUMPH. 


457 


CHAPTER  XCII. 

INCONSISTENCY  OF  THE  HEART. —  I  SEEK  GOD'S  WILL  IN  HIS  WORD. 

I  BEGAN  to  loathe  what  the  world  calls  society,  and  would  only  fre- 
quent those  houses  where,  had  I  not  gone,  I  was  afraid  the  world 
would  think  that  I  was  not  invited.  1  became  less  fastidious  about  my 
dress,  and  instead  of  ai)i)earing  always  in  a  new  costume,  I  would 
say  to  our  Lord  :  "  I  will  wear  the  old  dress,  and  give  the  price  of  a 
new  one  to  the  poor,  for  Thy  sake."  Whenever  I  made  that  sacrifice, 
1  was  sure  to  pass  a  happy  evening. 

One  evening  I  returned  from  one  of  the  Empress's  private  balls. 
That  night  I  refused  Laferriere's  arm  when  he  offered  to  take  me  into 
the  supper-room.  I  did  it  from  pride,  just  to  show  others  that  I  was 
determined  not  to  encourage  him  to  think  that  I  cared  anything  for 
him.  It  wounded  him.  I  was  rejoiced  at  the  moment ;  for  I  felt 
that  I  wanted  him  too  to  know  what  it  was  to  suffer,  forgetting  that 
his  heart  had  been  in  mourning  for  years, 

I  was  rejoiced  to  see  the  expression  of  interior  agony  that  passed 
over  his  countenance,  and  which  he  vainly  tried  to  conceal.  A  few 
moments  afterwards  he  spoke  to  me,  and  remarked  how  well  I  was 
looking.  1  was  Hushed  with  excitement,  and  rejoiced  that  I  had,  at 
last,  made  his  heart  feel,  for  an  instant,  what  mine  had  suffered  for 
so  long  a  time.   ' 

He  observed  that  my  health  appeared  to  be  entirely  restored.  I 
told  him  that  I  was  perfectly  well,  and  began  talking  to  him  in  the 
most  recklessly  giddy  style,  telling  him  how  happy  I  was,  how  I  was 
enjoying  myself;  and  I  named  over  the  list  of  my  new  accjuaintances, 
taking  pains  to  single  out  those  who  were  as  influential  as  himself. 
I  saw  how  every  word  I  uttered  wounded  him  ;  yet  I  delighted  in  it, 
at  the  same  moment  that  1  could  have  laid  down  my  life  for  him. 
So  inconsistent  is  the  heart,  when  filled  with  pride,  human  attachment 
and  disappointed  love. 

The  moment  I  entered  my  room,  I  broke  out  into  a  hysterical 
laugh.  1  felt  that  for  once,  at  least,  I  was  gratified.  I  knew  that  he 
was  wretched,  and,  in  his  misery,  I  seemed  to  find  satisfaction  for  all 
the  humiliations  that  his  delaying  our  marriage  had  heaped  upon  me. 

20 


■.:k 


u. 


»' 


458 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  PROPHECY. 


My  soul  gloated  over  its  revenge.  I  tried  to  convince  myself  that  I 
had  done  well.  Even  when  I  knelt  dv  "n  to  pra)',  I  endeavored  to 
draw  some  response  from  (iod,  some  con:-^;ation  to  justify  me  for  the 
way  in  which  I  had  acted.  My  spirits  were  elated  ;  but  my  heart  soon 
became  true  to  itself  again,  and  I  was  troubled  in  spite  of  the  eftbrts  I 
made  to  deceive  myself  with  the  thought  that  I  was  happy.  Alorn- 
ing  dawned  before  I  fell  asleep. 

The  following  night  I  was  reading  St.  Augustine's  confessions  at 
the  place  where  he  speaks  of  his  return  to  faith.  After  I  finished 
reading  I  began  to  review  the  past,  to  see  if  I  could  draw  any  con- 
clusion from  it,  that  I  should  one  day  be  Laferriere's  wife.  I  thought 
of  the  many  different  fortune-tellers  who  had  all  predicted  that  I 
would  marry  him.  Even  the  famous  Edmond  Iiad  told  me  so.  Tnit 
the  last  fortune-teller  I  had  consulted,  had  told  me  that  I  would  not 
marry  him. 

That  night  I  felt  inclined  to  give  her  credence  over  the  rest.  It 
was  true  that,  on  the  night  of  the  day  that  I  was  baptized,  I  was  sure 
that  our  Lord  had  come  to  me  in  my  slcei),  and  had  told  me  that, 
after  I  had  received  His  graces  as  many  more  times  as  there  were 
numbers  on  the  piece  of  j)aper  which  was  shown  to  me,  I  would  be 
united  to  ///'///.  Eut  I  also  recollected  that,  on  the  night  that  Lafer- 
ri^re  told  me  that  our  marriage  must  be  deferred  until  after  his  daugh- 
ter's death,  I  had  as  plainly  seen  written  on  a  scroll,  in  my  dream, 
"You  will  iirtrr  marry  Laferriere." 

This  dream  and  the  prediction  of  the  last  fortune-teller  were  up- 
permost in  my  mind,  and  my  heart  became  deathly  sad.  I  began  to 
feel  that  there  was  no  use  of  hoi)ing  against  hope,  and  I  would  say 
to  myself:  "What  is  the  use  of  all  this  sacrifice,  if  I  am  never  to 
marry  him  ?  " 

In  my  agony,  I  exclaimed:  "()  Clod,  why  didst  Thou  create  me, 
and  why  dost  Thou  delight  in  torturing  me?"  And  1  began  to  im- 
plore (!od  to  speak  to  me,  and  to  give  me  hope,  or  to  let  me  die,  for 
I  was  weary  of  such  a  life. 

I  reproached  Him  for  being  kinder  to  St.  Augustine  than  He  was 
to  me.  I  did  not  believe  that  1  had  ever  been  worse  than  St.  Augus- 
tine :  besiiles.  He  had  given  St.  Augustine  a  gooil  mother.  At  last  I 
exclaimed  with  indignation  :  "Just  look  at  the  kind  of  a  mother  you 
gave  me  !  How  could  you  have  ever  exiJccted  me  to  become  a 
(Christian?      The  least  you  can  do  is  to  let  me  marry   I.aferriere.  • 


CONSULTING  THE  BIBLE. 


459 


Ice  myself  that  I 
p  t-^ndeavored  to 

iistify  me  for  the 
jt  my  heart  soon 
|e  of  the  eftbrts  I 

'lappy.     Moin- 

|s  confessions  at 
After  I  finished 
Id  draw  any  con- 
|"'ife.  I  thoiig|,t 
predicted  that  I 

3'd  me  so.     JJnt 
fhat  I  would  not 

|ver  the  rest.     It 
ized,  I  was  sine 
d  told  me  that, 
s  as  theie  were 
"'e,  I  would  he 
'light  that  I,afer- 
after  his  tlaiigh- 
II,  in  my  dreau), 

■teller  were  up- 
■d.  J  began  to 
id  I  would  say 
I  am  never  to 

lou  create  mo, 
I  began  to  ini- 
let  me  die,  for 

■  'lian  He  uas 
lan  St.  Augus- 
t-'r.  At  last  I 
I  niother  you 
to  become  a 
y   i-aferriere. - 


Yes,"  I  continued,  "how  good  you  were  to  St.  Augustine,  to  speak 
to  him  in  the  Kible."  I  then  recollected  the  time  that  I  had  opened 
the  two  Bibles,  in  Brooklyn,  before  the  birth  of  my  child  ;  and  I  fairly 
scieamed  at  the  very  recollection  of  the  dreadful  words  I  had  found 
there. 

I  had  never  read  but  one  chapter  in  the  Bible  since.  I  took  out 
the  Ijible  and  began  to  kiss  it,  and  talk  to  it,  and  implore  it  to  tell 
me  the  trudi,  and  give  me  hope,  and  to  let  me  know  if  the  old  for- 
tune-teller and  the  dream  spoke  the  truth  or  not,  when  they  told  me 
that  I  was  never  to  marry  Laferriere. 

Then  raising  my  heart  to  God,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  a  painting  of 
the  "  EccE  Homo,"  I  opened  the  book,  and  my  eyes  instantly  fell  on 
these  words  of  Jeremiah  :    (Chap,  xxix.) 

"  8  For  thus  saith  the  Lord  of  hosts,  the  God  of  Israel ;  Let  not 
your  prophets  and  your  diviners,  that  be  in  the  midst  of  you,  deceive 
you,  neither  hearken  to  your  dreams  which  ye  cause  to  be  dreamed. 

"  9  Vov  they  prophesy  falsely  unto  you  in  my  name :  I  have  not 
sent  them,  saith  the  Lord. 

"  ID  For  thus  saith  the  Lord,  That  after  seventy  years  be  accom- 
plished ^t  Babylon  I  will  visit  you,  and  perform  my  good  word  toward 
you,  in  causing  you  to  return  to  this  place. 

"  1 1  For  I  know  the  thoughts  that  I  think  toward  you,  saith  the 
Lord,  tlioughts  of  peace,  and  not  of  evil,  to  give  you  an  expected 
end. 

"12  Then  shall  ye  call  upon  me,  and  ye  shall  go  and  pray  unto 
me,  and  1  will  hearken  unto  you. 

"13  And  ye  shall  seek  me,  and  find  me,  when  ye  shall  search  for 
me  witli  all  your  heart. 

•'  14  And  1  will  be  found  of  you,  saith  the  Lord :  and  I  will  turn 
away  your  captivity,  and  I  will  gather  you  from  all  the  nations,  and 
from  all  the  places  whither  I  have  driven  you,  saith  the  Lord  ;  and  I 
will  bring  you  again  into  the  place  whence  I  caused  you  to  be  carried 
away  captive." 

I  had  no  sooner  finished  reading  those  verses  of  Jeremiah  than  my 
whole  soul  was  filled  with  peace,  hope,  and  joy.  I  interpreted  them 
in  this  manner ;  that  the  fortune-teller  had  told  me  a  lie,  and  that  the 
dream  came  from  the  Devil.  As  Paris  is  called  the  modern  Babylon, 
and  as  it  was  then  the  beginning  of  the  year  1870, 1  was  sure  that  our 
Lord  promised  me  that  the  next  year  I  should  be  hapi)y.     1  could  not 


J'    ii 


iWHU 


46o 


MY   DIRECTOR   DISAPPROVES. 


then  give  a  meaning  to  the  14th  verse,  as  I  could  not  imagine  tliat 
there  conld  exist  any  other  hapjiiness  for  me,  than  that  of  being  wedded 
to  the  man  I  loved.  I  felt  sure  that  in  a  year,  all  my  troubles  would 
be  at  an  end. 

I  soon  fell  asleep,  and  awoke  the  next  morning  as  happy  and  as 
refreshed  as  though  I  had  not  been  shedding  a  single  tear. 

As  soon  as  I  rose,  I  went  to  see  Father  ]5a/,in,  and  told  him  how 
miserable  I  had  been,  but  how  happy  I  was  now  ;  and  I  related  to 
him  that  all  my  joy  came  from  having  opened  the  JJible,  and  having 
read  cerlain  words  therein. 

"  My  child,"  replied  the  Father,  "  that  is  all  wrong  :  you  must  never 
do  such  things  as  that.  It  is  presumption  and  superstition.  Suppos- 
ing you  had  happened  to  open  at  something  that  was  just  the  reverse; 
instead  of  being  peaceful  and  iiapi)y,  you  would  have  come  to  me  with 
your  heart  wrung  with  des[)air.     You  must  never  do  that  again." 

Said  I  :  "  1  don't  care  what  you  may  diink  or  say  about  it,  father; 
but  Ciod  spoke  to  me  then,  and  I  know  it."  The  good  father  tried 
in  vain  to  convince  me  that  I  was  wrong. 

From  the  time  I  had  opened  at  those  words  in  the  Bible,  for  weeks 
and  weeks  afterwards,  I  would  read  them  over  regularly,  two  or  three 
times  a  day.  In  them  I  now  found  all  my  hopes  of  happiness. 
Nothing  troubled  me.  I  was  firm  in  the  belief  that  God  had  spoken 
to  me,  and  that  He  had  promised  to  give  me  peace.  I  was  passing 
the  time  as  best  I  could,  waiting  for  the  year  1870  to  roll  round, 
at  the  end  of  which  I  believed  the  time  was  fixed  for  the  consumma- 
tion of  all  my  hopes. 


CHAPTER  XCni. 

DEATH    OF   THE   COUNT    DE   MONTALEMHERT. — MY   FIRST    "  RETRKAT." 
• — A    SUPERNATURAr.    COMMAND. 


March  came,  and  my  director  and  some  ladies  in  the  Faubourg 
tried  to  persuade  me  to  make  a  retreat,  which  was  to  be  given  in  tlie 
Cliapel  of  the  I,adies  of  the  Retreat,  by  Rev.  Father  Ducoudray, 
Superior  of  the  Jesuits  in  the  Rue  de  la  I'oste.  I  hesitated  about 
going ;  but  one  morning,  at  Mass,  I  determined  to  give  a  whole  week 
entirely  to  God. 


imagine  that 

IJt-'ing  wedded 

|troubles  would 

happy  and  as 
■ear. 

'told  him  how 
Id  I  related  to 
fie,  and  havinir 

■ou  must  never 
tion.  Suppos- 
st  the  reverse; 
me  to  me  with 
lat  again." 
Jout  it,  father; 
>d  father  tried 

il)le,  for  weeks 
y,  two  or  three 
of  hapj)iness. 
od  had  spoken 
I  was  passing 
to  roll  round, 
le  consumma- 


"rktrkat." 


he  J'aubourg 
:  given  in  the 
Ducoudray, 
sitated  about 
.  whole  week 


(J 


':::  & 


VI  i 


!    1 

ii 


V\ 


COUNT   UE   MON TALEMBKRT. 


SACRED  DEATH. 


461 


On  Sunday  morning,  the  13th  of  March,  the  Count  de  Montalein- 
liert  breathed  his  last.  I  went  to  see  Mmc.  de  la  Chapelle,  to  ex- 
press my  regrets  for  not  being  able  to  attend  the  retreat;  for  I 
wanted  to  Ije  at  the  de  Montalemberts'.  She  replied  that  tliat  need 
not  interfere  with  my  retreat ;  that  I  could  come  to  the  instructions, 
and  then  go  and  make  my  meditations  in  his  death-chamber,  I 
could  not  choose  a  more  fitting  place. 

Monday  morning,  after  the  instruction,  I  called  at  the  de  Monta- 
lemberts'. There  was  a  constant  flow  of  callers ;  yet  none  but  the 
clergy  were  permitted  to  go  in.     The  others  left  their  cards. 

I  bribed  the  portress,  and  she  allowed  me  to  go  up  by  the  ser- 
vants' staircase.  1 

Never  can  I  forget  the  impression  that  the  solemnity  which  reigned 
in  that  room,  where  the  body  of  the  great  Christian  orator  lay,  made 
on  my  mind,  as  I  ajiproached  his  corpse,  and  knelt  beside  it. 

The  Count  de  Montalembert  was  beautiful,  as  he  lay  there  in 
death.  His  countenance  bore  an  expression  of  manly  virtue,  and  of 
true  nobility.  At  his  feet  lay  a  cross  of  Parma  violets,  in  the  centre 
of  which  was  arranged,  with  white  flowers,  the  initial  of  his  last  name. 
The  whole  room  was  impregnated  with  the  odor  of  the  violets,  which 
stole  upon  the  senses  like  incense  lighted  by  friendship's  hand  around 
a  hallowed  bier. 

I  never  prayed  as  fervently  as  I  prayed  there ;  and  my  constant 
])rayer  was  :  "  Lord,  have  mercy  on  his  soul  and  mine.  Inspire  me, 
beloved  Jesus,  what  to  do.  May  I  do  a  great  deal  of  good  before  I 
die  ;  and  may  I  make  Thee  and  Thy  (Church  beloved  !  " 

I  did  nothing  but  repeat  that  prayer,  and  it  seemed  as  though  my 
soul  could  pour  forth  no  other. 

Madeleine,  the  daughter  of  the  deceased  count,  knelt  silently 
at  tlie  bed-side.  As  she  rose  to  leave  she  saw  me,  and  threw 
her  arms  around  me.  We  tenderly  embraced,  and  then  kneeling 
down  together,  our  arms  entwined  around  each  other,  she  wept,  while 
I  continued  to  pray,  ever  repeating  the  same  prayer. 

Tuesday  morning  1  went  there  again,  and  also  in  the  afternoon. 
It  was  but  a  repetition  of  the  day  before,  only  new  faces;  yet  none 
but  the  clergy  entered  the  room.  I  offered  up  the  same  i)rayer. 
Wednesday  I  attended  his  Tuneral,  and  made  my  meditation  there. 
Thursday  was  the  t  7th,  and  my  birth-day.  I  went  to  see  Madam 
de  Montalembert,  during  the  interval  of  the  instructions.     Friday  I 


Ikl; 


in 


^1! 


i 


'i  r 


f    ; 


^fn 


ilj 


K~\ 


4%' 


■i 


!  I'i 


I 'I 


462 


AN   INSPIRATION. 


remained  the  whole;  day  at  the  retreat.  Saturday  morning,  which 
was  the  feast  of  St.  Joseph,  I  ])rayed  with  greater  fervor  and  faith,  and 
implored  St.  Joseph  to  intercede  for  me,  that  (iod  would  inspire  nie 
what  to  do. 

Just  before  I  rose  to  go  to  receive  Holy  Communion,  my  heart 
began  to  burn.  I  could  not  remember  ever  having  experienced  such 
peace  and  joy.  As  soon  as  I  had  received  Communion,  as  I  was 
about  to  rise  from  the  altar,  I  cried  out,  from  the  innermost  dejnhs  of 
my  soul :  "  O  beloved  Saviour,  do  not  refuse  to  answer  my  pi  ayer. 
St.  Joseph,  pray  for  me  that  God  will  inspire  me  what  to  do." 
Instantly  I  heard  a  voice  clearly  say  :  "  Go  homk  and  work,  for 
God."  I  replied,  "  I  will."  I  went  back  to  my  seat  :  and  my  whole 
bosom  was  aglow,  and  I  could  have  swooned  away  with  delight.  I  al 
once  began  to  make  preparations  in  my  mind  to  leave,  and  resolved 
to  reduce  my  expenses,  that  I  might  have  more  money  to  emi>loy  in 
God's  service,  when  I  reached  America. 

That  day  we  finished  the  Retreat  at  St.  Genevieve's  tomb,  in  the 
church  of  St.  Edenne  du  Mont  (St.  Stephen  of  the  Mount),  which  is 
situated  near  the  Pantheon. 

While  I  was  there  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  returning  to 
America  ;  and  it  was  there  that  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  that  I 
would  build  a  little  church  among  my  mucli-beloved  hills.  I  had  no 
sooner  decided  upon  it,  than  it  seemed  as  though  God  Himself 
sanctioned  it :  I  was  perfectly  at  peace  and  at  rest.  I  felt  thai; 
that  was  the  work  God  required  of  me,  and  all  the  way  going  homtj 
I  kept  mentally  exclaiming :  "  I  will  go  to  America,  and  will  build 
Thee  a  church  ;  and  then  I  know  that  those  numbers  will  be  filled  uj), 
and  that  Thou  wilt  bring  me  back  again  to  France,  and  let  mc 
marry  Laferriere." 

My  friends,  and  even  my  new  director.  Father  liazin,  tried  to  dis- 
suade me  from  leaving ;  and  when  I  persisted  in  my  resolution, 
they  said  I  was  crazy. 

I  wrote  to  I-aferriere.  He  replied  that  he  would  not  try  to  deter 
me  from  my  resolution,  but  begged  of  me  to  consider  it,  at  least  two 
months,  before  I  engaged  my  passage,  or  made  any  alterations  in  my 
apartments. 

On  the  1 6th  of  May,  the  two  months  had  nearly  expired,  and  I 
was  more  sanguine  than  ever,  that  God  had  called  me  to  go  to 
America,  and  build  Him  a  church. 


returning  to 

to  ni'j,  (hat  r 

Is-     J  had  no 

God   HiinsL-If 

I  t'flt  that 

going  hoin«; 
k1  will  build 
1  be  filled  up, 

and  let   nic 


lornmg,  which 
land  faith,  and 
'"Spire  niu 


Id 


Jion,  my  heart 
lerienced  such 


ion,  as  I 


«MS 


|io:  t  depths  of 

'">'  pia)er. 

Iwhat   to   do." 

p   Work   i-(,r 

lid  my  whole 

delight.     I  at 

and  resolved 

'  to  eini>loy  in 

tomb,  in  the 
^int),  which  is 


t« 


ri! 


II 


m 


tried  to  dis-. 
'  resolution, 

try  to  deter 
^t  least  two 
tions  in  my 

'ired,  and  I 
e  to  go  to 


■   'I! 


1   [ 

s^lB 

1 

1 

1' 

1 

^^Hii 

MONSIEUR   DE   CORCELLES. 


MR.    DE   CORCELLES. 


463 


I  was  kneeling  at  the  altar  of  Our  Lady  of  Victories. 

While  I  was  invoking  the  prayers  of  the  Madonna,  the  idea 
occurred  to  me,  like  an  inspiration,  that,  before  I  left  Paris,  I  ought 
to  make  use  of  the  influence  I  Iiad  among  prominent  Catholics  in 
France,  to  secure  the  protection  and  co-operation  of  the  Archbishop 
of  New  York. 

While  1  was  invoking  the  i)rayers  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  thought 
flashed  through  my  mind  what  the  course  was  that  I  ought  to  pursue. 

It  was  this  :  to  get  Monsieur  de  Corcelles  to  write  to  Archbishop 
McCloskey  for  me,  and  ask  his  permission  ;  for  Monsieur  de  Corcelles 
had  been  sent  to  Rome  twice,  as  Minister  Plenipotentiary  of  France, 
once  under  Louis  Philippe,  and  again  imder  the  French  Republic. 
I  had  reason  to  believe  that  Monsieur  de  Corcelles  was  on  terms  of 
intimate  friendship  with  the  Pope,  as  the  Holy  Father  had  recjuested 
him,  in  an  autograph  letter,  to  investigate  the  state  of  the  Papal  finan- 
ces, for  the  use  of  the  members  of  the  Vatican  Council,  which  was 
then  in  session. 

When  I  returned  to  the  abbey  1  found  Monsieur  de  Corcelles  wait- 
ing for  me.  He  had  just  seen  his  publisher,  and  had  in  his  hand  a 
printed  copy  of  his  report,  which  he  handed  to  me  ;  and  I  read  such 
Ijortions  of  it  as  he  pointed  out. 

After  I  had  finished  reading  1  handed  back  the  pamphlet,  with  the 
remark  that  1  was  glad  my  finances  were  not  in  such  a  state  as  the 
Pope's  were.  That  made  de  Corcelles  laugh,  and  I  instantly  took 
advantage  of  his  good  humor  to  add :  "  I  am  glad  that  you  are  in 
n  cheerful  mood.  I  believe  God  sent  you  to  me,  for  I  was  just 
going  down  to  your  house."  "  I  want  you,"  said  I,  "  to  write  to 
the  Archbishop  of  New  York,  who  fs  now  in  Rome,  and  tell  him 
that  I  am  an  intimate  friend  of  your  family;  that  I  was  introduced 
to  you  by  your  cousin,  Madam  de  Montalembert ;  that  I  am 
intimate  with  the  Czartoryskis ;  and  that  I  am  greatly  esteemed  by 
you  all  for  my  i)iety  and  benevolence.  And  then  you  will  say  to  him, 
that  I  am  going  home  to  the  United  States,  to  build  a  church  in 
Anienia  Union,  Dutchess  county.  New  York,  and,  if  possible,  a 
school-house  for  Irish  children.  Be  sure  to  put  in  Irish  children  ; 
for  he  has  an  Irish  name  himself,  and  he  must  be  an  Irish  gentleman  ; 
the  word  '  Irish'  will  take.  Tell  him  I  am  a  saint ;  and  you  must 
ask  him  if  he  will  not  influence  the  Ladies  of  the  Sacred  Heart  to 


'  ) 


i^< 


I       I    .:    ,«. 


I 


;  \ 


•i.l 


if 


pltftl 


464 


THE   ARCHinSIIOr   OV   Sl.W    YORK. 


educate  my  child  at  half  the  usual  \mcc  ;  which,  )ou  sec,  would  give 
me  more  means  to  speml  011  my  church." 

Monsieur  de  Corcelles  is  one  of  the  kindest  hearted  men  thai  ever 
lived.  He  only  knew  me,  as  he  had  seen  me  wiiile  interesting  my- 
self in  good  works.  The  moment  I  reciuested  him  to  do  uk-  this 
favor,  he  sat  down  immediately  and  addressed  a  long  letter  to  tiic 
ArcIi!)ishop.  The  letter  was  just  such  as  I  had  desired  ;  and  .Mr. 
de  (Jorcelles  added,  that  the  Arclibishop  would  be  doing  iiim  and  his 
family  a  personal  favor,  if  he  would  give  me  his  protection,  in  my 
present  undertaking.  He  also  begged  him,  as  I  requested  him  to  do, 
to  use  his  influence,  in  my  behalf,  with  the  Superior  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  in  New  York. 

While  M.  de  Corcelles  was  writing  the  letter,  several  people  called 
on  me,  and  I  received  them  in  the  parlor.  As  soon  as  he  had  fmished 
it,  he  brought  it  in,  and  read  it  aloud. 

My  friends  all  sin-.ultaneously  exclaimed:  "  Af(7i:^///J/(j//t'  /"  and 
they  all  declared  that  I  deserved  all  the  praise  that  he  had  lavislu  '  1 
me  ;  for  the  letter  was  a  perfect  eulogy  of  my  virtues  and  devotion. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  that  you  have  told  His  (Irace  who  I  am,  you 
must  enclose  your  report  of  the  present  state  of  the  finances  of 
the  Pope, — that  he  may  know  who  you  are  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  he 
will  feel  flattered  to  receive  the  first  copy." 

I  gave  him  a  large  envelope,  and  he  did  as  I  reciuested  him. 

In  good  time  Monsieur  de  Corcelles  received  the  answer ;  of  which 
the  following  is  a  translation  : 

*'  Rome,  Afay  27///,   1870. 
"Sir, 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your  esteemed 
letter  of  the  T6th  inst. 

"  What  Mrs.  St.  John  Eckel  asks,  is  not,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  my 
power  to  grant.  I  doubt  if  even  the  local  Superiors  can,  of  them- 
selves, effect  such  an  arrangement. 

*'  To  obtain  it,  they  would  be  obliged  to  submit  the  matter  to  the 
Very  Rev.  Mother-General,  who  resides  in  Paris,  and  from  whom, 
by  all  means,  Mrs.  St.  John  Eckel,  coming  from  Paris,  ought  to  have 
letters.  Besides,  the  Vicar,  who  represents  the  Rev.  Mother- 
General,  does  not  live  in  my  diocese,  but  at  Kenwood,  in  the  neigh- 
boring diocese  of  Albany.  ' 

"As  regards  the  project  of  this  good  lady,  I  must  remark  that  there 


OF  THE   SAME   OPINION   STILL.' 


465 


I  •    • 


would  give 

lii'-'H  that  ever 
[tcrcsiing  my- 
|(>  »io  UK-  this 
letter  (()  the 
K'd  ;  and  Mr. 
1;  him  and  his 
lection,  in  niy 
^•'I  him  to  do, 
'I"  the  Sacred 

people  callrd 
e  had  finished 

'/f'//n-/"  and 
d  lavislu.  '  1 
ul  devotion, 
ho  ]  am,  yon 
!  finances  of 
I  sure  that  he 

ed  him. 

ver ;  of  which 

'  27///,  1S70. 
»iir  esteemed 

^  say,  in  my 
an,  of  them- 

latter  to  the 
from  whom, 
light  to  have 
■iv.  Mother- 
n  the  neigh- 

ik  that  there 


exists  already  in  Amcnia  quite  a  commodious  and  spacious  church. 
I  dedicated  it,  and  I  administered  the  Sacrament  of  Confirmation 
there  a  short  time  before  embarking  for  Europe.  A  priest  lives  in 
Amenia,  and  serves  at  Dover,  where  there  is  also  a  fine  church.  As 
the  faithfid  are  dispersed  here  and  there  in  the  country,  it  would  be 
dillicult  to  find  a  common  point  to  build  a  school,  which  the  children 
could,  at  least  for  the  jjresent,  easily  attend.  In  the  meantime  the 
parents  send  them  to  the  schools  nearest  their  dwellings. 

"  I  can  understand  how,  having  been  so  long  a  time  absent  from 
the  country.  Madam  is  not  aware  of  what  I  have  just  pointed  out. 
(iod  will  not  fail,  I  hope,  to  take  account  of  her  good-will,  and  to 
reward  her  for  it.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  add,  that  it  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  assist  her,  when  the  wants  shall  be  more  real  and  urgent. 

"Allow  me,  at  the  same  time,  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the 
work  accompanying  your  letter.  I  thank  you  heartily  for  this  mark 
of  attention,  and  1  beg  you  to  accept  the  very  sincere  expression 
of  my  homage  and  respect. 

"  Your  very  humble  and  very  devoted  servant  in  J,  C, 

"John  McCi.oskey, 

"Archbishop  of  New  York." 

As  soon  as  Monsieur  de  Corcelles  had  finished  reading  to  me  the 
letter,  he  added  :  "  I  hope  that  this  will  \n\t  an  end  to  your  determi- 
nation to  build  a  church,"  "  No,"  said  I,  "I  find  authorization  and 
encouragement  enough  in  that  letter.  There  is  enough  there  tor  me 
anyhow."  "Why,"  said  he,  "  His  Grace  shows  plainly  that  there  is 
no  need  for  another  church  there  ;  and  he  intimates,  as  delicately 
as  possible,  that  he  does  not  desire  it." 

"  He  may  not  want  it,"  I  remarked,  "  but  our  Lord  does  ;  or  He 
would  not  have  told  me  to  go  and  build  one."  Monsieur  de  Corcelles 
rei^lied :  "  I  am  surer  that  our  Lord  told  us  to  be  submissive  to  those 
who  are  in  authority,  than  I  am  that  He  told  you  to  go  to  America 
and  build  a  church." 

I  found  his  reply  a  little  perplexing.  While  I  was  meditating  how 
I  should  persuade  him  that  he  was  wrong,  and  that  I  was  right,  I 
recollected  the  little  boundary  stone,  and  that  I  was  not  in  Amenia, 
but  in  Sharon,  Connecticut,  and  I  exclaimed  :  "  The  Lord  is  certain- 
ly with  me  ;  for  I  am  going  to  build  it  in  Sharon,  and  not  in  Amenia." 
**  Why,  then,"  asked  M.  de  Corcelles,  "  did  you  tell  me  to  write  to 
20* 


i  ;1 


466 


THE   ACHING   HEARTS. 


him  that  you  were  going  to  build  it  in  Amenia,  if  you  were  going  to 
build  it  in  Sharon  ?  "  Said  I  :  ''  I  never  thought  of  it.  But  it  is  all 
the  same  thing,  for  you  cannot  tell  the  difference  when  you  get 
there." 

I  then  quietly  took  the  letter  out  of  his  hand,  saying  :  "  I  had 
better  keep  this  letter  myself,  for  I  may  need  it  some  day  to  remind 
His  Grace  of  his  promise." 


CHAPTER    XCIV. 


REASON    AND     I.OVP:. — PEACE     TO     BE     FOUND     NOT     IN    MAN,     nUT 

IN    GOD. 

The  two  months  having  expired,  I  wrote  to  Laferyiere  that  my 
mind  was  still  unchanged,  and  that  I  was  firmly  resolved  to  leave 
France. 

He  came  the  day  after  he  received  my  letter.  Nearly  seven 
months  had  passed  since  he  had  crossed  my  thresliold.  We  both 
burst  into  tears,  as  we  clasped  again  each  other's  hands.  As  soon  as 
I  told  him  where  I  was  going,  and  my  plans,  he  set  before  me  all  the 
difficulties  of  such  a  position,  among  people  who  were  already  predis- 
posed against  me. 

I  told  him  tliat  I  could  not  suffer  more  there  than  I  id  in  Paris  ; 
for  to  live  so  near  to  him  and  not  to  see  him,  was  a  continual  martyrdom. 
Said  he  :  "  It  was  your  own  wish."  "  I  wished  it,"  said  I,  "  l)ecause 
1  believ  d  God  demanded  it  of  me  ;  and  1  believe  so  still.  JUit 
whether  ti  at  was  an  hallucination  or  not,  it  would  be  impossible  for 
us  to  renew  our  former  relations,  because  1  have  gone  so  far  that  all 
my  friends  would  despise  me  and  turn  their  backs  on  me,  if  I  did. 
If  I  were  your  wife,  I  would  not  care ;  but  situated  as  I  am,  and  on 
account  of  my  child" — 

He  interrupted  me — "  It  is  true,  and  it  would  be  wrong  for  me  to 
permit  you  to  make  such  a  sacrifice,  on  account  of  your  child.  Her 
future  depends  on  the  esteem  others  have  for  you.  Put  because  you 
would  not  be  willing  this  moment  to  sacrifice  the  consideration  of 
others  for  me,  on  account  of  your  child,  do  I  reproach  you  for  it  ? 
and  do  I  love  you  less,  because  I  do  not  try  and  persuade  you  from 


were  going  to 
But  it  is  all 
|when   you  get 

^ying  :  "  I  had 
clay  to  remind 


N    MAN,     RUT 


I'liere  that  my 
reived  to  leave 

Nearly  seven 
bid.  We  both 
s-  As  soon  as 
fore  me  all  the 
already  predis- 

did  in  Paris ; 
val  martyrdom, 
d  I,  "  because 
so  still.  JJut 
impossible  for 
so  far  that  all 
I  i"e,  if  I  did. 
I  am,  and  on 

^ng  for  me  to 
r  child.  Her 
because  you 
sideration  of 
h  you  for  it  ? 
ule  you  from 


HUMAN   LOVE. 


467 


doing  your  duty  ?  The  happiness  of  my  child  is  just  as  dear  to  me 
as  yours  should  be  to  you.  Religion  should  teach  you  to  bear  your 
cross,  instead  of  seeking  to  fly  from  it  as  you  are  doing.  In  trying 
to  evade  one  cross,  we  often  encounter  heavier  ones,  and  I  hope 
you  may  never  have  cause  to  regret  having  placed  the  ocean  be- 
tween us. 

"  When  you  are  in  America,  you  say,  you  are  going  to  give  up  the 
world.  If  you  do,  you  will  then  have  time  to  reflect ;  for  the  world 
soon  forgets  us,  when  we  no  longer  stand  in  its  way,  or  it  can  no 
longer  make  use  of  us.  Wait  until  you  find  yourself  abandoned  and 
alone  :  you  will  then  reflect,  and  you  will  do  me  justice.  But  I  pity 
you,  and  wish  to  spare  you  that.  I  do  not  consider  that  you  are 
conscious  of  what  you  are  doing.  I  look  upon  your  imagination  as 
diseased.  I  would  that  my  words  might  have  some  effect  upon  you, 
and  you  would  change  your  mind,  and  try  to  be  satisfied  to  Uve  here  ; 
for  certainly  if  we  could  not  see  each  other  frequently,  we  could 
occasionally  at  least,  without  the  slightest  impropriety.  I  am  willing 
to  make  my  share  of  the  sacrifice,  for  I  see  that  my  doing  so  increases 
the  esteem  that  others  have  for  you.  And  if  I  have  remained  away 
from  you  so  patiently,  and  have  not  persisted  in  seeing  you,  I  made 
the  sacrifice,  knowing  that  it  would  be  for  your  good.  My  senti- 
ments for  you  may  not  be  as  ardent  and  as  demonstrative  as  yours  are 
for  me ;  viais,  croycz  moi,  que  les  miens  valcnt  bien  les  rotres  (but 
believe  me,  they  are  none  the  less  real  and  enduring)." 

"All  very  well,"  said  I ;  "it  is  easy  enough  to  talk  about  a  diseased 
imagination,  and  to  make  light  of  a  sensitive  and  impassioned  heart. 
I'hat  heart  may  not  have  the  sterling  value  of  your  own ;  but  I  am  as 
(jod  made  me.  I  can  only  love  as  I  do  love.  I  cannot  command 
my  heart  to  love  you  in  a  mathematical  avoirdupois  way,  as  you  can, 
and  say  I  will  love  you  just  so  far,  and  no  farther,  submitting  every 
pulsation  within  me  to  the  voice  of  reason.  I  lose  my  reason  when 
I  think  of  you." 

"  Cold  and  passionless  as  my  heart  may  seem  to  you,"  he  replied, 
"  I  sometimes  believe  that  my  love  for  you  will  outlive  yours  for  me. 
I  have  always  had  a  presentiment  of  it.  I  have  a  deep  and  tender 
aflection  for  you,  and  you  know  you  can  always  look  up  to  me  as 
you  would  to  a  father  ;  and  the  time  may  come  when  my  words  may 
come  back  to  you,  and  you  will  wish  that  you  had  some  one  to  love 


lifln 

j',  ''iS''|  ^f'  uiS'      ! 

^-  1  'S*  'H 

I  3:1  ' 

4  ■       'n 

•",■•1 

i ' 

(fli^ 

;     1   . 

\ 

-  '"n 

Y. 

■ 

>  ■ 

•       ! 

1 ,  ' 
ti    - 

%; 


I         1 


[\ 


■■';  I. 


468 


TRUE   REST, 


for   you,   even   as  a  father,   much  as  the  word 


you  and  care 
displease  you  now. 

"For  we  are  not  always  young,  and  the  heart  is  not  always  Avarin 
and  ])assionate.  Age,  sorrows,  and  disappointments  often  chill  it. 
They  have  chilled  mine,  and  you  should  not  rei)roach  me,  when  ] 
give  you  all  the  warmth  that  still  remains  in  it." 

Said  I :  "I  have  implored  God  to  inspire  me  what  to  do  that  will 
bring  peace  to  my  soul.  He  has  made  His  will  known  to  me,  and  1 
shall  doit;  for  I  believe,  that  as  a  reward  for  my  obedience.  He 
will  give  me  rest,  and  we  shall  yet  both  be  hajjpy." 

I  took  his  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  He  did  not  withdraw  it 
from  me,  but  looked  at  me,  with  an  air  of  profound  sadness, 
mingled  with  pity. 

He  continued  to  talk  to  me  for  hours,  trying  to  dissuade  me  from 
my  project. 

After  he  became  convinced  that  nothing  he  could  do  or  say  would 
deter  me,  he  said  :  "  If  you  will  go,  go,  and  may  God  give  you  that 
peace  and  rest  of  mind  which  you  so  eagerly  seek.  But  you  are 
seeking  that  which  you  will  never  find,  until  you  seek  it  in  (Jod 
alone  ;  for  (iod  has  reserved  that  power  to  Himself,  of  giving  peace 
and  rest  to  the  souls  of  His  creatures.  When  you  ask  it  of  me,  you 
are  asking  of  me  what  I  ask  for  myself  We  should  not  ask  it  of 
each  other,  for  we  have  it  not  to  give.  And  that  ])eace,  even  then, 
which  God  alone  can  give,  does  not  exempt  us  from  suffering ;  for  peace 
consists  only  in  doing  our  duty,  and  being  resigned  to  the  will  of 
God. 

"  I  was  once  young,  and,  like  yourself,  I  sought  my  happiness  in 
mortals.  I  thought  that  I  had  found  it.  "  I  ought  not  to  complain, 
for  God  permitted  that  I  should  revel  in  that  illusion  for  years. 
But  when  I  least  expected  it,  the  illusion  vanished  ;  and  1  often  ask 
myself  if  the  pleasure  that  those  we  love  give  us.  is  equal  to  the  pain 
and  desolation  that  we  feel,  when  God  takes  them  from  us.  The 
bitter  pangs  of  disapj^ointment  that  still  s\vee[)  over  my  heart  answer. 
No." 

Here  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  wejjt.  As  soon  as  he  re- 
covered from  his  emotions,  he  continued  : 

"  J  now  see  that  you  are  making  this  sacrifice,  believing  that,  if 
yoti  do  so,  God  will  one  day  unite  us.  But  1  am  not  worth  such  a 
sacrifice,  and  God  will  punish  you  by  disappointment ;  for  peace  of 


VACILLATION. 


469 


pe  word  may 

t  always  warm 
often  chill  it 
Ih   me,  when   I 

jto  do  that  will 
fi  to  me,  aiul  1 
obedience.  He 

not  withdraw  it 
oiind   sadness, 

iiade  me  from 

)  or  say  would 
give  you   that 
f^iit  you  are 

eek  it  in  CJod 
f  giving  peace 
-  it  of  me,  you 
I  not  ask  it  of  ' 
ce,  even  then, 
ing;  for  peace 
to  the  will  of 

happiness  in 
to  oom|)lain, 

on  for  3'ears. 

(1  i  often  ask 

il  to  the  pain 

>ni  us.      The 

leart  answer, 

^on  as  he  re- 

^'i'lg  that,  if 
orth  such  a 
r  peace  of 


mind  can  only  be  obtained  where  we  do  our  duty.  And  your  con- 
science should  tell  you  that  your  duty  is  to  remain  here,  with  your 
child,  where  God  has  given  you-a  protector  and  a  friend.  No  one  can 
foresee  the  future  ;  but  the  best  way  to  prei)are  for  it,  is  to  always  do 
our  duty ;  and  you  owe  it  to  yourself,  to  your  child,  and  to  my  ten- 
der solicitude,  to  remain  where  you  are  and  try  to  be  contented." 


CHAPTER  XCV. 

MV  DOUBTS, GOD  DISPELS  TIIKM. 

While  Laferriere  was  with  me  that  afternoon,  it  seemed  as  though 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  recompense  that  (lod  would  give  me, 
if  I  should  obey  Him  ;  and  it  was  my  fliith  and  hojie  in  Him  which 
sustained  me,  and  made  me  insensible  to  everything  that  Laferriere 
could  say,  to  try  to  induce  me  to  abandon  my  project.  But  as  soon 
as  I  was  alone,  I  was  beside  myself  with  grief ;  all  my  courage  and 
hope  forsook  me.  That  evening  I  was  tempted  to  write  to  him 
that  I  would  remain  ;  but  I  began  to  pray,  and  then  I  dared  not 
write. 

The  next  morning  I  repaired  early  to  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of 
Victories,  and  while  praying  at  the  foot  of  her  altar,  all  my  courage 
and  hope  returned.  I  became  incensed  with  myself,  for  having  even 
hesitated  ;  and  to  prevent  any  further  vacillations,  after  I  left  the 
church,  I  went  to  the  office  of  the  Transatlantic  Steamshii)  Co.,  and 
secured  a  passage  for  myself  and  child  in  the  Pereire,  which  was  to 
sail  on  the  17th  of  June. 

]^ut  I  was  no  sooner  back  in  the  abbey,  than  all  my  strength  and 
resolution  failed  me  again  ;  for  my  ajiartment  was  beautiful,  and  was 
most  richly  and  artistically  arrayed.  1  cast  my  eyes  around  it,  and 
exclaimed :  "  How  can  I  leave  thee ;  and  all  my  friends ;  and 
Laferrii^re  ?" 

After  my  return  to  France,  a  young  woman  of  about  thirty  had  ap- 
plied to  me  for  a  situation.  She  was  very  distingue  and  prepossessing. 
I  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  thought :  "  Well,  I  will  run  the  risk, 
and  see  how  a  pretty  maid  can  work  ;«for,  with  all  my  precaution  in 
singling  out  homely  ones,  they  have  all  turned  out  to  be  rogues." 

1  engaged  Fran(;oise  on  trial,  and  soon  found  her  a  most  excellent, 


M 


h' 


>  it 


1   » 
i 


I',, 


m  &■ 


470 


A  bugbp:ar  from  Montesquieu. 


trustworthy,  and  serious  person.  My  motto  now  is,  that  a  pretty  maid 
is  the  best  to  have,  after  all, — but  you  must  be  sure  and  see  that  she 
is  pious,  as  well  as  pretty. 

Fran^oise  did  all  she  could  to  cheer  and  encourage  me,  and  of- 
fered to  accompany  me.  "Ah,  Fran9oise,"  said  I,  "you  don't  know  the 
country  that  I  am  going  to."  "  Oh,"  she  quickly  replied,  "  I  fear 
nothing,  because  my  director  tliis  morning  advised  me  to  go  with 
you." 

I  instantly  recollected  that  her  director  was  a  Jesuit.  The  moment 
she  pronounced  those  words,  I  did  not  deliberate  a  second,  but  told  her 
that  I  would  not  permit  her  to  accompany  me.  My  only  reason  for 
refusing  her  was  on  account  of  her  intimacy  with  the  Jesuits.  I  was 
resolved  not  to  hold  any  relations  with  them  in  New  York,  for  fear 
they  might  find  out  things  about  me,  and  write  bark  to  their  house  in 
Paris.  I  had  only  told  Father  Baxin  a  very  fine  story,  and  he  sup- 
posed that  I  was  as  much  of  a  lady  at  home  as  I  was  abroad. 

I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  prejudices  I  had  conceived  against 
those  priests,  particularly  the  one  that  Montescpiieu  had  put  into  my 
head.  It  was  a  great  sacrifice  I  made  to  fear ;  for  Frant^oise  would 
have  been  a  great  consolation  to  me. 

In  sjjite  of  my  refusal  to  let  her  accompany  me,  she  encouraged 
me  to  keep  my  resolution,  and  told  me  that  it  was  too  late  to  give  it 
up  now ;  that  everybody  in  the  abbey  had  seen  Monsieur  de  La- 
ferriere's  carriage  standing  for  hours  before  my  door,  and  it  was 
already  whispered  through  the  abbey,  that  he  would  persuade  me  to 
remain  ;  and  she  advised  me  to  go,  if  I  returned  in  the  next  steamer. 

The  next  day  I  left  the  abbey  for  good,  and  went  to  board  at  a 
house  recommended  to  me  by  the  I-adies  of  the  Retieat. 

For  three  weeks  I  did  nothing  but  while  away  the  time  in  the 
salons  of  my  friends.  My  favorite  resort  was  the  salon  of  the  Mar- 
quise de  Blocfiueville,  in  which  I  had  the  happiness  to  meet  tiie  most 
distinguished  men  in  the  world  of  letters.  The  Marquise's  apartments 
were  the  most  elegant  and  sumptuous  in  Paris.  They  were  fitted  up 
in  genuine  Oriental  style,  under  the  immediate  supervision  of  the 
Marquise,  who  is  gifted  with  extraordinary  natural  abilities,  which 
have  been  nurtured  and  developed  by  education,  study,  and  associa- 
tion with  the  most  refined  minds  in  I'rench  society.  This  lady  was 
among  my  dearest  and  most  charming  friends.  Looking  back  on  my 
chequered  career,  I  cannot  remember  any  period,  when  I  was  so 


ONE  FRIEND   AT  HOME. 


471 


a  pretty  maid 
|d  see  that  she 

nie,  and  of. 

lon't  know  the 
|lied,  "  I  fear 

|e  to  go  with 

The  moment 
|d,  but  told  her 
ily  reason  for 
-s"its.     J  was 
^oik,  for  fear 
their  house  in 
and  he  sup- 
•road. 

eived  against 
1  put  into  my 
iiit^oise  would 

'  encouraged 
ate  to  give  it 
«ieur  de  La- 

and  it  was 
f^Uiide  me  to 
ext  steamer. 

board  at  a 

time  in  (he 
3f  the  Afar- 
^i  the  most 
apartments 
le  fitted  up 
ion  of  the 
ies,  which 
h1  associa- 
•*  'ady  was 
<^k  on  my 
I  was  HO 


happy,  in  the  worldly  sense  of  that  word,  as  during  those  three  weeks, 
during  which  I  conmiuned  with  the  highest  order  of  minds. 

As  soon  as  I  had  decided  to  leave,  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dix  of  my  in- 
tended departure,  and,  a  few  days  before  I  sailed,  received  the  follow- 
ii;g  reply  : 

"  New  York,  May  zisi,  1S70, 
"Mv  Dear  Mrs.  Eckel, 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  well,  after  so  long  a  silence,  and 
not  surprised  to  know  that  you  are  coming  home ;  although  I  hoped 
that  your  anxieties  and  troubles,  whatever  they  may  be  or  have  been, 
had  come  to  an  end,  and  that  you  were  happy  and  at  peace  again. 
But  if  this  is  not  to  be  in  France,  you  are  quite  right  to  break  away 
from  everything  that  holds  you  there,  and  try,  amid  other  scenes,  to 
forget  the  past,  and  begin  upon  a  new,  and,  1  trust,  brighter  and 
hajjpier  page  of  your  life's  history. 

"  Bring  your  child  with  you  too,  and  be  contented  here.  The 
change  may  be  hard  at  lirst ;  but  if  it  i  a  sacrifice  that  is  worthy,  it 
will  in  the  end  bring  its  full  reward.  You  know  that  you  have  never 
confided  to  me  your  history.  I  have  only  surmised  many  things; 
and  I  cannot  advise  you,  as  if  I  had  your  entire  confidence. 

'*  Present  us  with  pleasant  remembrances  to  Monsieur  de  Laferriere, 

"  Their  Majesties'  names  are  often  upon  our  lij)s,  and  are  always 
cherished  with  grateful  remembrance  in  our  hearts.  The  Imperial 
vases  are  the  pride  of  our  home,  and  are  the  admiration  of  all  who 
see  them. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  express  to  Their  Majesties  how  honored  we  feel 
in  the  possession  of  such  a  souvenir  of  our  happy  residence  in  Paris — 
the  finest  city  in  the  world. 

"  Very  tru^y  your  friend, 

'*  Catherine  M.  Dix." 

As  soon  as  I  read  this  letter,  I  exclaimed  :  "  Thank  God,  I  have 
one  faithful  friend !  that  is  enough."  I  was  really  attached  to  Mrs. 
Dix,  and  did  not  care  if  all  New  York  went  against  me,  so  long  as 
I  felt  that  I  could  go  to  her  for  sympathy  a;id  encouragement. 

Madam  de  Montalembert,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  put  me  in  rela- 
tion with  the  ladies  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  She  introduced  me  to  the 
Assistant  Superior-General,  Mme.  Dessoudin,  a  middle-aged  lady, 
and  one  of  the  most  charmingly  sympathetic  persons  1  had  ever  met. 


Uii  ' 


'■s  -t     i:l 


472 


INDECISION. 


This  lady  gave  me  an  excellent  letter  to  their  house  in  New  York, 
in  which  she  begged  of  them  to  do  for  me  all  that  tiiey  could  to  assist 
me  and  encourage  me  in  my  undertaking. 

No  sooner  were  all  my  things  packed, — except  my  harp  and  some 
statuary, — than  all  that  consolation  and  hope,  which  had  buoyed  me 
up  during  the  past  three  weeks,  left  me,  and  I  began  to  dread  re- 
turning again  to  the  United  States.  All  that  T.aferri^re  had  said  to 
me  came  back  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  he  was  right,  ai  that  I  was 
really  deluded. 

From  the  moment  I  had  announced  my  intention  of  returning  to 
America,  to  build  a  church,  nearly  everybody  I  knew  had  said  to  me  : 
"  Why,  you  have  gone  crazy."  I  had  had  nothing,  it  seemed  to  me, 
but  that  poured  mto  my  ears,  since  the  moment  I  had  made  my  de- 
signs known  ;  and  I  began  to  think  that  they  were  right,  and  that  I 
was  crazy,  and  I  wondered  how  I  could  have  been  drawn  into  such 
folly  simply  by  imagining  that  I  heard  an  interior  voice,  on  the  19th  of 
March,  ray  to  me,  "  Go  home  and  work  for  (iod," — as  if  God  would  ever 
send  me  to  America,  after  all  my  effort  to  do  right  and  to  i)lease  Him  ! 
And  Laferri^re  ?  had  he  not  always  predicted  true  ?  "  Oh,"  thought 
I,  "  it  is  too  much.  Rather  will  I  go,  and  confess  to  everybody  that 
I  was  deluded  ;  that  1  imagined  I  heard  a  voice,  when  I  could  have 
heard  nothing."  Yet  all  the  while  that  I  was  trying  to  convince  my- 
self that  I  had  heard  no  voice,  I  was  sure  that  1  had  heard  one. 

I  went  to  St.  Sulpice,  and  knelt  before  St.  Joseph's  altar.  While 
on  my  way,  I  was  arranging  in  my  mind  how  1  could  undo  my  folly. 
I  would  store  my  furniture  away ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  suffer 
any  humiliation  among  my  friends,  rather  than  return  to  my  native 
country. 

As  I  prayed  my  faith  increased,  and  I  began  conversing  with  (Jod 
as  I  would  with  a  fond  and  tender  parent.  I  prayed  there  and  wept 
until  I  was  so  ■  'chausted,  that  I  had  hardly  strength  enough  to  walk 
back  to  my  home.  When  I  got  to  my  apartment,  I  sank  on  the  bed, 
and  continued  to  pray  and  to  weep  until  nearly  midnight,  ever  vacil- 
lating as  to  what  1  should  do. 

At  last  I  thought  of  my  Bible.  It  lay  on  a  table,  at  the  head  of  my 
bed.  I  rose,  struck  a  light,  took  the  Bible,  and  pressed  it  to  my 
bosom,  and  began  to  implore  it  not  to  forsake  me  this  time.  I  knelt 
down  by  the  side  of  my  bed,  and  said  to  our  Lord  :  "1  want  to  do  tight. 
Thou  knowest  1  do.     If  I  have  done  wrong,  forgive  me.     But  Thou 


THE   BIBLE  DECIDES. 


473 


'  in  New  York, 
Icould  to  assist 

jiarp  and  some 
lad  buoyed  nie 
|n  to  dread  re- 
jre  had  said  to 
("'  tliat  I  was 

•f  returning  to 
•cl  said  to  nic  : 
icemed  to  me, 
made  my  de- 
;lit,  and  that  I 
awn  into  such 
on  tlie  19th  of 
lod  would  ever 
oiJlease  Him! 
Oh,"  thought 
very  body  that 
I  could  have 
convince  my- 
ard  one. 
altar.     While 
ndo  my  folly, 
line!  to  suffer 
to  my  native 

ng  with  (;od 
ere  and  wept 
High  to  walk 
:  on  the  bed, 
t,  ever  vacil- 

head  of  my 
(l  it  to  my 
le.      J  knelt 

to  do  right. 
But  'rjiou 


knowest  that  I  was  sincere.  I  thought  that  Thou  didst  speak  to  me. 
Oh,  inspire  me,  T,ord,  what  to  do.  Speak  to  me  now,  and  whatever 
Thou  tellest  me  to  do  1  will  do  it,  whether  it  be  to  go  or  to  stay  ;  but 
let  Thy  words  be  clear." 

So  saying,  I  opened  the  book,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  these  words  in 
the  26th  chapter  of  F'zekiel,  beginning  at  the  24th  verse  : 

"  24.  For  I  will  take  you  from  among  the  heathen  and  gather  you 
out  of  all  countries,  and  Avill  bring  you  into  your  own  land. 

"  25.  Then  will  I  sprinkle  clean  water  upon  you,  and  ye  shall  be 
clean  from  all  your  filthiness,  and  from  all  your  idols  will  I  cleanse 
you. 

"  26.  A  new  heart  also  will  I  give  you,  and  a  new  spirit  will  I  put 
within  you  :  and  I  will  take  away  the  stony  heart  out  of  your  flesh, 
and  I  will  give  you  an  heart  of  flesh. 

"27.  And  I  will  put  my  spirit  within  you,  and  cause  you  to  walk 
in  my  statutes,  and  ye  shall  keep  my  judgments  and  do  than. 

*'  28.  And  ye  shall  dwell  in  the  land  that  I  gave  to  your  fathers  ; 
and  ye  shall  be  my  people,  and  I  will  be  your  (Jod. 

"20.  I  will  also  save  you  from  all  your  uncleannesses :  and  I  will 
call  for  the  corn,  and  will  increase  it,  aiid  lay  no  famine  upon  you. 

"  30.  And  I  will  multiply  the  fruit  of  the  tree,  and  the  increase  of 
the  field,  that  ye  shall  receive  no  more  reproach  of  famine  among  the 
heathen. 

"31.  Then  shall  ye  remember  your  own  evil  ways,  and  your  doings 
that  were  not  good,  and  shall  loathe  yourselves  in  your  own  sight  for 
your  ini(piities  and  for  your  abominations." 

I  instantly  rose  and  said  :  "  Lord,  I  will  go  :  I  know  Thou  speak- 
est  to  me  now."  My  eyes  had  no  sooner  fallen  on  those  words  than 
all  my  doubts  left  me,  and  I  received  the  same  light,  the  same  peace, 
and  the  same  courage  to  make  the  sacrifice,  that  I  had  felt  at  the 
altar,  when  I  heard  that  voice  say  to  me,  "  Go  home,  and  work  for 
God  I" 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  the  Abbey.  I  was  no  longer  afraid 
to  look  on  its  bare  floors  and  unornamented  walls.  The  moment  I 
entered  my  room  I  saw  that  my  harp  was  still  unpacked.  I  took  off 
the  cover  to  loosen  the  strings,  when,  to  my  suri)rise,  I  saw  it  was 
broken.  Who  broke  it?  That  I  never  knew.  I  su]ii)ose  that 
some  of  the  workmen  must  have  let  something  fiill  on  it,  or  have 
knocked  it  over.      While  I  was  examining  it,   the  door-bell  rang. 


:1!    ! 


illfi-', 


474 


THE  BROKEN   HARP. 


I' 


'■'  ll 


I  made  a  quick  motion  to  go  and  open  the  door,  for  I  was  there  all 
alone.  The  bottom  of  my  dress  caught  in  one  of  the  pedals  of  the 
iiarp ;  I  pulled  it  over,  the  top  of  it  broke,  and  all  its  strings  were 
loosened. 

This  made  a  fearful  impression  on  me  for  a  moment.  I  looked 
iil)on  it  as  a  bad  omen.  But  I  immediately  recollected  the  vision  or 
dream,  which  had  rei)eated  itself  three  times,  wherein  I  had  seen 
m}self  on  board  the  Pereire,  and  my  harp  lying  on  the  shore,  with  all 
its  strings  broken,  and  the  vessel  moving  off  without  it. 

I  had  engaged  my  passage  in  the  Pereire  without  any  reference  to 
the  dream,  and  was  only  that  instant  reminded  of  it.  As  I  looked  at 
my  harp,  all  unstrung,  I  saw  therein  a  fullilment  of  the  vision  that  I 
had  had  about  eighteen  months  before,  and  1  felt  more  satisfied  than 
ever  that  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  go. 

I  sent  word  to  Erard,  the  harp-maker.  He  sent  his  foreman  to  ex- 
amine the  harp,  who  said  that  it  would  be  several  weeks  before  they 
could  repair  it ;  and  they  would  ship  it  to  me  to  New  York,  as  soon 
as  it  was  finished. 


you 


ll 


I 


I 

I 


CHAPTER  XCVI. 

ADIEU,    LA    FRANCE. — MV    GOOD    LITTLE    ANGEL. 

T^AFERRifeRE  came  to  see  me  the  day  before  I  left.  It  was  not  to 
say  good-by,  for  he  said  that  he  would  come  to  the  station,  and  see 
me  otf.  I  never  saw  him  look  so  sad  :  he  scarcely  spoke ;  and  I  too 
could  hardly  speak,  but  I  wept  as  though  my  heart  would  break. 
We  were  together  over  an  hour ;  and  to  my  sobbings  he  would  say : 
"  Fous  ravcz  voiilu — vous  I'avez  vouln."  ("  You  would  have  it  so — 
you  would  have  it  so.") 

As  I  expected  he  would  be  at  the  station  to  bid  me  a  last  farewell, 
I  had  forbidden  my  other  friends  to  come  ;  for  I  wished  to  pass  those 
few  precious  moments  alone  with  him. 

1  arrived  at  the  station  with  my  child  and  Fran^oise.  Laferri^re's 
valet  was  there,  waiting  for  me ;  and  as  I  descended  from  the  car- 
rivige,  he  handed  me  two  letters.  They  were  both  from  I.aferridre  : 
one  was  for  me,  and  the  other  was  for  Gen.  Dix.  I  opened  mine. 
It  ran  thus: 


AN   ANGEL  OF  CONSOLATION. 


475 


was  there  all 

pedals  of  the 

J-s  strings  Wde 

^it.     I  looked 
the  vision  or 
|n  I  had  seen 
shore,  with  all 

\y  reference  to 

^s  I  looked  at 

vision  that  I 

satisfied  tlian 

orenian  to  ex- 
es before  they 
York,  as  soon 


EL. 

It  was  not  to 
Ltion,  and  see 
e ;  and  I  too 
^vould  break. 
e  vvould  .say  : 
liave  it  so — 

last  farewell, 
o  pass  those 

Laferriere's 
loni  the  car- 

I-aferriere  : 
Jened  mine. 


"My  Dear  Chii-d, 

"  I  have  thought  it  better  for  you,  as  well  as  for  me,  to  avoid  a  last 
interview,  which  the  presence  of  others  would  render  distressing.  I 
send  you  a  last  and  tender  adieu,  and  my  ardent  wishes  that  your 
voyage  may  be  cairn  and  happy. 

"  May  you  find  in  your  native  land  peace  and  repose,  and  forget- 
fulness  of  the  past.  When  the  immensity  of  the  ocean  is  between  us, 
you  will  do  me  justice,  and  you  will  say  that  I  have  been  a  good  and 
faithful  friend. 

"  You  may  rely  upon  my  attachment ;  it  will  always  be  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  give  you  proofs  of  it.  Adieu,  m.y  dear  child, — may  Clod 
watch  over  you,  and  give  you  the  hajipiness  that  you  no  longer  find 
near  me.    I  press  you  to  my  heart,  and  1  embrace  tenderly  your  child. 

"  1  shall  write  to  you  at  l^rest.  In  the  meanwhile,  receive  the  as- 
surance of  my  sincere  and  devoted  affection. 

"  I.AFERRliiRE." 

I  nearly  fainted  at  the  disappointment.  His  valet  and  Fran^oise 
supported  me  to  the  railway-carriage. 

When  the  train  started,  I  threw  myself  back  in  my  seat,  and  gave 
full  vent  to  my  tears.  It  was  the  saddest  disajipointment  I  had  ever 
met  with,  not  to  find  him  there,  to  give  me  a  parting  farewell  kiss. 
Every  stride  that  the  car  made  onward,  shook  my  frame,  as  though 
an  iron  hand  had  grasi:)ed  my  heart,  and  was  wrenching  from  it,  root 
by  root,  the  idol  to  which  it  clung  and  to  which  it  had  given  all  its 
affections. 

I  must  have  remained  there  for  over  an  hour,  wjth  my  face  buried 
in  my  hands,  and  my  heart  plunged  in  the  direst  agony,  when  I  sud- 
denly thought  of  my  child,  and  looked  up  to  see  what  had  become 
of  her.  I  had  forgotten  that  she  was  with  me,  and  that  I  was  not 
alone.  She  had  nestled  herself  up  in  a  corner  of  a  seat,  and  was 
praying  with  a  little  chaplet  that  Madam  Dessoudin  had  given  her. 
Her  eyes  were  cast  downward,  and  her  infantine  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  peace  and  devotion,  so  sadly  sweet,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
an  angel  of  consolation  had  suddenly  appeared  before  me. 

As  I  gazed  upon  her,  my  tears  ceased  to  flow,  and  for  a  moment 
1  forgot  my  sorrow.  I  looked  silently  upon  her  until  she  had  told 
her  last  bead  ;  then,  raising  her  eyes,  and  seeing  that  I  was  no 
longer  weeping,  but  looking  at  her,  she  sjMang  into  my  arms,  and 


1 1'  «. 


:iy 


lllii 


r-llil 


\  i. 


tl 


r 


1 

w 

# 

i 

I 

»'  . 

••iRt 


476 


OUT  OF  THE  MOUTH  OF  BABES. 


cried  out :  "  Oh,  mamma,  I  knew  that  yoii  would  stop  being  sad  • 
for  I  have  said  my  clia])lct  for  you  three  times  through,  and  I  know 
that  the  JMessed  Virgin  would  be  good  to  you." 

She  covered  my  face  with  kisses  ;  but,  instead  of  making  nic 
happy,  her  sympathy  only  brought  back  to  my  heart  its  desolation, 
and  I  fell  to  weeping  more  bitterly  than  before. 

"  Mamma,  tell  me  your  sorrows." 

"  You  are  not  old  enough,  dear  little  one,  to  understand  them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,  mamma,"  she  answered.  "You  just  tell  theiu  to 
me,  and  you  will  see  that  I  am  old  enough.  I  can  understand 
them  :  do  tell  them  to  me." 

She  coaxed  me  so  sweetly,  that  at  last  I  pretended  to  yield,  ami 
she  got  on  my  knee,  and  began  to  pass  her  little  hand  soothingly 
over  my  forehead. 

Then  I  said  to  her  :  "Mamma  is  all  alone  in  the  world  ;  she  has  no 
father  nor  mother  to  take  care  of  her  ;  she  lias  no  other  father  to  look 
after  her  but  God,  and  no  other  mother  but  the  JJlessed  Virgin." 

The  child  quickly  interrupted  me,  and  in  the  most  serious  tone 
replied  :  "  Hut  they  are  the  best  of  i)arents,  mamma." 

Her  pious  and  cheering  remark  drove  away  all  my  sadness,  and  I 
began  to  laugh  at  the  serious  expression  of  countenance  the  child 
had  assumed,  and  the  way  she  had  uttered  those  words.  She  tried 
to  stop  my  laughing,  and  begged  me  to  continue  and  tell  her  my 
sorrows.  "  I  have  none  now,"  said  I.  "  Oh,  yes,  you  have, 
mamma,"  she  rejilied  ;  "you  had  just  begun  to  tell  them  to  me. 
Please  go  on." 

"  I  was  sad,"  I  replied,  "  before  I  told  you  Avhat  was  the  matter 
with  me  ;  but  since  you  have  told  me  that  God  and  the  Blessed  A'ir- 
gin  are  the  best  of  parents,  I  have  no  more  reason  to  be  sad,  for  I 
find  that  I  am  better  off  than  I  thought  I  was." 

She  was  not  satisfied  with  the  abrupt  termination  of  my  story,  and 
turning  from  me,  she  began  to  look  out  of  the  window.  In  a  few 
moments  she  turned  towards  me  again,  and  said  :  "Tell  me,  manuna, 
all  about  our  little  mountain  home,  where  you  are  going  to  take  me." 
Ikit  before  she  gave  me  a  chance  to  reply,  she  called  my  attention  to 
the  view,  and  wanted  to  know  if  our  little  home  looked  like  the  one 
that  she  saw  in  the  distance.  At  the  same  time  she  asked  me  if  we 
passed  through  there,  when  we  came  to  France,  when  she  was  a 
little  baby.  , 


words 


[f'P  being  sad; 
K  'iiKl  r  knew 


I  of  niakinj 
Its  desolation. 


nie 


stand  them." 
|ti-sL  tell  them  (o 
-111  understand 

fl  to  yield,  and 
and  soothingly 

rid  ;  she  has  no 
r  father  to  look 
d  Virgin." 
St  serious  tone 

sadness,  and  I 
ance  the  child 
rds.  She  tried 
id  tell  her  my 
es,    yoii    have, 

them  to  ine. 

•as  the  matter 
e  blessed  Vk- 
>  be  sad,  for  I 

my  story,  and 
3w.  In  a  fe\v 
'  me,  mamina, 

to  take  nie." 
y  attention  to 

like  the  one 
icd  ine  if  we 
1  she  was  a 


MY   NORMANDIE.' 


477 


I  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  country  wore  the  same  aspect  as 
it  did  the  first  time  1  saw  it.  It  seemed  as  though,  in  a  second,  my 
mind  traversed  all  the  varied  scenes  through  which  I  had  passed 
for  the  past  seven  years,  back  to  the  day  that  the  train  was  bearing 
me  towards  Paris  for  the  first  time.  Instantly  I  recalled  the  buoy- 
ant feelings  of  hope  that  had  filled  my  breast  as  1  entered  for  the 
first  time  that  beautiful  city.  But  now  how  changed  was  1  !  and  how 
different,  too,  were  the  feelings  that  overflowed  my  heart  ! 

I  sank  back  again  into  my  seat,  closed  my  eyes,  and  tried  in 
thought  to  live  that  day  over  again.  Instantly  that  old  French  song, 
A/a  Noiinamiic,  came  to  my  mind,  and  I  began  humming  it  in 
thought.  But  this  time,  instead  of  the  first  verse  of  the  song,  the 
words  of  the  last  rose  in  my  mind — 

"II  est  un  age  dans  la  vie 

OCi  cha(|ue  reve  doit  finlr ; 
Un  age  oCi  I'anie  recueillie 

A  besoiii  de  se  souvenir. 
Lorsque  ma  muse  refroidie 

Aura  fini  ses  chants  d'amour, 
J'irai  revoir  ma  Normandie  : 

C'est  le  pays  qui  m'a  donnC'  le  jour." 

"  There  comes  an  age  in  all  our  lives, 

When  ev'ry  dream  must  Jiave  an  end  ; 
An  age,  when  fond  remembrance  strives 

To  Iong-]iast  scenes  new  charms  to  lend. 
When  cliilled  by  years  my  muse  shall  be, 

Nor  more  to  songs  of  love  invite ; 
Then  must  I  see  my  Normandy 

Once  more,  where  first  I  saw  the  light." 

I  had  hardly  uttered  them  in  my  mind,  before  my  child,  turning 
to  me  again,  asked  why  I  did  not  want  to  tell  her  all  about  our  little 
home  among  the  hills.  Said  I  :  "  Sweet  child,  that  shall  be  our 
Normandie  ;  and  when  we  get  there,  you  will  pray  for  mamma,  that 
(iod  will  help  her  to  forget  her  sorrows." 

She  quickly  remarked  :  "  I  am  not  going  to  wait  until  we  get  there 
for  that  :  I  am  going  to  pray  for  that  now,  that  God  may  make  you 
forget  them  directly  ;  for  it  would  be  a  great  deal  better  for  us  to 
enjoy  ourselves  going  there.  So  don't  look  sad  any  more,  niainma." 
She  commenced  talking  to  me  and  reasoning  vvith  me,  as  a  person 


V\    !. 


!i 


''■  h 


•r 


I     'I 


1*1 


H  A\ 


478 


THE   GOOD   SlIEPUKKD. 


of  three  times  her  years  would  have  clone  ;  and  I  soon  actually  be- 
gan to  confide  in  her,  and  said  to  her  that  I  thought  it  was  cruel  in 
the  Viscount,  not  to  come  and  see  us  off.  "  IJut,  mamiua,"  she  re- 
plied, "you  know  how  much  he  has  to  do  :  so  you  must  not  cry  for 
that.  And  he  told  you  once  that  you  were  always  complaining  of 
him,  and  he  never  deserved  it." 

I  took  the  remark  as  a  well-deserved  reproach,  and  fell  to  weeping 
again.  I  longed  to  reach  Havre,  to  write  to  Laferriere,  and  tell  iiini 
how  much  I  loved  him,  and  that  I  had  faith  and  hope  in  God  that 
all  would  yet  be  well. 

As  soon  as  I  reached  there  I  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  in  which 
I  unburdened  to  him  my  soul.  The  next  morning  I  arose  early, 
and  went  to  Mass  with  my  child,  and  received  Holy  Communion. 
We  were  just  about  to  leave,  when  I  noticed  that  we  were  kneel- 
ing by  St.  Dominick's  altar.  This  was  Laferri^re's  patron  saint,  and 
Dominick  was  also  one  of  the  names  given  to  my  child.  I  was 
struck  with  the  coincidence  which  had  led  me  to  that  particular  altar, 
and  the  fact  that  it  should  be  the  last  shrine  I  was  to  kneel  at  before 
bidding  a  hnal  adieu  to  France. 

On  leaving  the  church  I  felt  strong  and  hopeful  ;  and  all  the  way 
back  to  the  steamer  I  was  joyful,  because  I  had  obeyed  God.  I 
felt  that  it  was  no  illusion,  but  that  He  had  called  me,  and  that  I  was 
now  doing  His  will ;  and  I  was  certain  that,  in  return.  He  would 
give  me  a  rich  reward. 

On  the  morning  of  the  17th  of  June,  1870,  the  sun  shone  brightly 
on  Havre,  as  the  steamer  Pereire  moved  off  from  the  harbor.  I  was 
standing  on  her  deck,  beside  my  child,  watching  the  receding  shore. 
My  heart  was  raised  to  (»od  in  prayer,  and  I  continued  to  implore 
Him  to  watch  over  me,  and  to  guard  and  protect  me. 

All  at  once  I  chanced  to  see  that  same  old  sign,  which  had  at- 
tracted my  attention  the  first  time  I  saw  the  shores  of  France.  It 
was  the  clothier's  sign,  "  au  bon  Pasinir.''^  "  The  Good  Shepherd  " 
was  represented  by  a  life-size  figure  of  our  Lord  carrying  in  his 
arms  a  poor  sheep,  which  had  wandered  from  the  fold. 

Instantly  my  heart  overflowed  with  pious  gratitude  towards  God. 
I  found  that  picture  :-vinbolic  of  our  Lord's  ways  with  me,  and  was  so 
moved  by  the  just  apiilication  of  it  to  myself,  that  the  tears  streamed 
down  my  cheeks,. from  a  sense  of  God's  goodness  and  my  own  way- 
wardness, and  I  mentally  exclaimed  ;  "  That  represents  you  and  me, 


A   VISION   VERH'IKD. 


479 


311  actually  he- 
lit  was  cruel  in 
jmi.ia,"  she  re. 
fist  not  cry  for 
pouiplaiuing  of 

[fell  to  vvecpiiv 
k  and  tell  him 
pc  in  Cod  that 

etter,  in  which 
i  arose  earl\-, 
y  Communion, 
e  were  kneel- 
ron  saint,  and 
child,  r  was 
articular  altar, 
^neel  at  before 

nd  all  the  way 
Jcyed  God.  I 
and  that  I  was 
rn,  He  would 

shone  brightly 
larbor.  I  \vas 
."ceding  shore. 
■d  to  ini|)lore 

which  had  at- 
r  France.  It 
1  Shepherd  " 
rying    in  his 

awards  God. 
-',  and  was  so 
ars  streamed 
13'  own  way- 
you  and  me, 


Lord  ;  for  I  have  always  gone  astray,  but  you  have  never  ceased  to 
seek  me  and  to  follow  me,  through  all  my  sinful  paths,  and  at  last  you 
overtake  me,  and  carry  me  in  your  arms.  1  am  so  glad  that  I  obeyed 
Thee,  Lord  !  I  know  that  Thou  wilt  not  abandon  me,  and  wilt  bring 
me  back  to  these  shores  again.  For  I  promise  Thee  that  I  will  be 
good,  and  then  I  know  that  Thou  wilt  not  refuse  me  anytliing." 

The  tri\)le  vision  that  1  had  received,  eighteen  months  before  in 
answer  to  my  i)ra_,ers,  was  now  realized.  For  I  was  standing  on  the 
deck  of  the  Pereire,  which  was  leaving  the  shores  of  Havre  bound  for 
America  ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  my  harp  in  France  with  all  its 
strings  broken. 

I  now  looked  ujion  the  vision  as  a  happy  omen,  typical  of  my  future. 
I  firmly  believed  that  all  the  cords  of  sorrow  with  which  my  heart 
from  childhood  had  been  strung  were  one  day  to  be  forever  broken. 

liut  how  soon  we  turn  from  (iod  to  man !  I  had  no  sooner 
entered  my  state-room  thar.  I  began  longing  to  reach  lirest,  so  as  to 
receive  Laferrit^re's  letter  ;  and  my  impatience  increased  as  the 
steamer  advanced.  To  wait  so  many  hours  seemed  like  being 
obliged  to  abide  an  endless  eternity — especially  to  pa.ss  those  hours 
at  sea,  where  the  moments  were  mostly  counted  in  my  berth  by  the 
motion  of  the  ship,  as  it  rocked  to  and  fro  on  the  water. 

At  last  we  came  in  sight  of  IJrest,  and  the  postmaster  of  the  ship 
brought  me  a  package  of  letters.  I  hastily  ran  my  eyes  over  them. 
1  recognized  the  handwriting  of  many  of  my  friends, — but  there  was 
no  letter  from  Laferridre. 

This  disappointment  I.  felt  far  more  keenly  than  the  first ;  for  my 
heart  was  worn  out  with  expectation  and  impatience,  and  to  reach 
the  shore,  and  then  to  be  disappointed,  was  too  much  !  I  went  to 
the  postmaster,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  not  made  a  mistake,  and 
mixed  one  of  my  letters  with  somebody  else's.  He  replied  :  "  I 
handed  you  twelve  ;  that  was  all  there  was  for  you."  I  counted  them, 
and  would  have  willingly  thrown  them  all  into  the  sea  without  break- 
ing their  seals,  in  exchange  for  but  one  line  from  him. 

]''or  an  instant  my  soul  rebelled ;  but  it  soon  submitted.  A  sense 
of  fear  came  over  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  alone  in  God's  almighty 
hand,  and  I  at  once  asked  him  to  forgive  me,  and  give  me  His  divine 
protection. 

I  went  up  again  on  the  deck,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the 
side  of  my  child,  and  remained  there  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  shore, 


':      -(M 


i'\ 


•  H-  -.^ 


\\    'i 


y  a 


1 


480 


LAST  GLIMPSE   OF  ^'RANCE. 


until  it  receded  from  my  sight.  When  its  last  glimpsj  disappeared, 
and  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  horizon's  verge  on  the  water,  I  was 
seized  with  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  which  spreads  itself  like  a  pall 
over  the  heart,  as  it  sees  all  its  bright  hopes  and  visions  of  years 
vanish  suddenly  from  view. 

"O  beloved  France  !  "  thought  I,  as  I  wept,  "how  could  I  leave 
thee  ?  and  when  shall  I  ever  see  thy  .si  ores  again  ?  Will  he  live  until 
then,  and  will  he  love  me  still  ?  " 

My  soul,  buried  in  the  deepest  gloom,  was  awakened  by  a  sweet, 
gentle  voice,  saying :  "  Mamma,  mamma,  Monsieur  de  Corcelles 
writes  better  than  the  rest,  because  I  can  read  his  writing."  I  looked 
at  my  child,  and  saw  that  she  had  been  opening  my  letters,  and  was 
busy  trying  to  read  them.  "  Mamma,"  she  continued,  "let  me  keep 
Monsieur  de  Corcelles'  letter,  because  I  want  that  poetry  that  he  luis 
written  to  you  ;   I  will  say  it  to  my  doll." 

She  took  up  his  letter,  and  read  the  words  which  pleased  her  so 
well,  which  were : 

"La  toilette 

N'est  pas  1' esprit. 

On  est  belle, 

Sans  dcntellc, 

Qiiand  le  cceur  liiit." 
* 

"Oft  rich  dress 

Small  wit  confines 

There's  a  grace, 

Without  lace, 

Where  the  heart  shines." 

I  then  read  the  following  letter  from  my  old  and  tried  friend,  the 

Princess  Sulkowska. 

"  Paris,  y////f  16///,  1870. 
"8,  rue  Eortin. 
"  Mv  Dkar  Friend, 

"  You  are  now  far  from  so  many  friends,  who  love,  and  who  regret 
you,  sailing  on  the  ocean,  which  puts  sjuice  between  us,  but  can 
never  succeed  in  making  us  forget,  becausi;,  for  the  heart  and  the 
mind,  neither  space  nor  separation  exist. 

"  Happily  so  many  souvenirs  whic:ii  bind  oiu'  friL'udship,  will  render 
It  enduring  and  unalterable  among  all  the  changes  of  life. 

"  1  liope,  dear  friend,  that  you  will  write  me  a  few  words  from  Brest, 
and  also  as  soon  as  you  arrive  in  America,  so  that  1  shall  not  be  left 


clisappeared,' 
water,  I  was 
W  like  a  pall 
pions  of  years 

tould  I  leave 
111  he  live  until 

[d  by  a  sweet, 
de  Corcellcs 
.g."  Hooked 
ters,  and  was 
"let  me  keep 
0'  tliat  he  has 

leased  her  so 


:d  friend,  the 

6///,  1870. 
,  lue  For  tin. 


:1  who  regret 
us,  but  can 
cart  and  the 

>,  will  render 

from  Brest, 
I  not  be  left 


WORDS  FROM   KIND   HEARTS. 


481 


in  suspense  about  you  and  your  child.  How  M.  de  LaferriSre  must 
have  suffered  in  seeing  you  start  on  so  long  a  voyage,  poor  wounded 
heart!  But  I  can  understand  how  yours  i^  rent  on  leaving  Paris, 
where  you  have  passed  so  many  happy  hours,  where  the  divine  light 
shone  upon  your  soul,  and  where  you  leave  behind  so  many  friends, 
and  others  who  feel  an  interest  and  sympathy  for  yon.  May  C^i 
conduct  you  both  in  safety  to  your  journey's  end.  May  He  guide  you, 
and  order  His  angels  to  watch  over  you ! 

"  I  embrace  you  tenderly,  as  well  as  my  dear  little  godchild,  who 
probably  by  this  time  has  had  enough  of  travelling  by  water. 

.    "  Your  affectionately  devoted  friend, 
•  - 

"  Princkss  Marie  Sulkowska." 

The  next  one  was  from  Madame  Mayaud,  daughter  of  M.  Lou- 
vet,  then  Minister  of  Agriculture  and  Commerce,  in  whose  family  I 
had  been  treated  like  a  daughter  : 

"Saumur  (Maine  f.t  Loire), 
^'■June  17,  1870. 
"  Mv  Dear  P'riend, 

"  I  hone  these  few  words  will  reach  you,  and  will  give  you  a  final 
evidence  v;f  the  sympathies  which  you  leave  behind  you. 

"  Your  sacrifice  then  is  Jiiade  !  You  have  withdrawn  yourself  from 
this  intoxicating  life  of  Paris,  to  go  where  God  calls  you,  and  where 
duty  commands. 

"  Journey  then  in  peace  towards  your  new  destiny,  and  love  God 
above  all  things.  He  will  give  you,  in  ])roportion  as  you  acconiplish 
His  divine  will,  secret  joys  and  a  delightful  intimacy,  which  the  world 
could  never  bring  you.  You  will  enjoy  peace  of  soul  in  love, — true, 
true  ! — because  that  is  perfection  itself. 

*'  1  shall  await  impatiently  a  line  from  you,  to  prove  that  I  am  not 
forgotten.     My  little  Marie  remembers  her  friend  Genevidve. 

As  for  you,  my  dear  friend,  my  prayers  and  thoughts  will  accom- 
pany you,  and  my  affection  will  cross  the  sea  with  you. 

"L.  Mavaud  Lou  vet." 

The  following  is  from  M.  Louvet,  Madam  Mayaud's  father  : 

Office  ok  the  Minister  of  Agriculture  and  Commerce, 

••Paris,  June  idi/t,  187a 
"Dear  Madam, 

"At  the  moment  of  your  departure  from  France,  where  we  were  so, 
21 


M 


It 


jl 


f: 


nil 


-  !  i 


'i 

f'-il 

|;jr 

ill 

|i 

i 

I 

¥i 


482 


HOLY   WORDS   FROM   A   STATESMAN. 


happy  to  nave  you,  allow  me  to  address  to  you  a  parting  salutation, 
in  my  own  name  and  in  that  of  my  family.  You  carry  with  you 
the  esteem  and  affection  of  all  who  have  known  you.  Try  and  find 
in  your  native  country  that  repose  of  mind  and  peace  of  heart,  with- 
out which  there  is  no  real  happiness  here  below. 

"  Our  prayers  follow  you.  We  ask  God  to  take  you  under  His  pro- 
tection. He  will,  I  am  sure  ;  for  He  loves  you,  since  He  sought 
after,  pursued,  and  led  you  back  to  himself,  like  the  Good  Shepherd 
going  after  the  loved  and  wandering  sheep.  Give  Him  therefore  love 
for  love,  more  and  more. 

"  You  will  have,  besides  other  heavenly  assistance,  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin, who  holds  so  exalted  a  place  in  our  Catholic  religion  ;  then  the 
holy  Patroness  under  whose  care  your  noble  godmother  placed  you; 
afterwards  the  guardian  angel,  who,  according  to  the  traditions  of  our 
faith,  watches  unceasingly  at  your  side  ;  and  finally,  the  other  guard- 
ian angel  that  God  has  given  you  on  earth, — I  mean  your  charming 
little  girl,  whom  you  love  more  than  yourself,  and  whose  caresses  are 
like  a  beneficent  dew,  calming  and  refreshing  your  poor  heart.  So 
you  see,  dear  Madam,  you  have  a  great  many  protectors ;  if  ever 
danger  or  trials  overwhelm  you,  invoke  them,  and,  believe  me,  they 
will  preserve  you. 

*'  Adieu,  dear  Madam  ;  when  shall  we  meet  again  on  this  earth  ? 
Never,  perhaps.  In  any  case,  there  is  one  place  of  meeting  which 
will  never  fail.  Heaven  ;  where  all  pure  sympathies  and  holy  affection 
will  be  united,  never  to  be  separated  any  more. 

"  A  vous,  Madam,  cast  a  last  look  at  the  shores  of  our  Brittany 
from  your  vessel,  as  you  depart ! 

"  My  highest  expressions  of  tender  and  respectful  attachment. 

"  LOUVET." 

M.  Louvet's  letter  brought  back  the  bright  hope  and  consolation, 
that  I  had  felt  on  leaving  the  shores  of  Havre,  when  I  gazed  upon 
that  image  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  It  revived  all  my  hopes  and  trust 
in  God,  and  I  felt  that  all  would  yet  be  well,  as  it  was  only  from  faith 
and  confidence  in  God,  that  I  had  made  n)y  sacrifice. 


|g  salutation, 

irry  with  you 

|Try  and  find 

heart,  with- 

ider  His  pro- 
He  sought 
jod  Shepherd 
[herefore  love 

Blessed  Vir- 
m;  then  the 

placed  you ; 

itions  of  our 

other  guard- 
our  charming 

caresses  are 

r  heart.       So 

ors ;    if  ever 

leve  me,  they 

1  this  earth  ? 
leeting  which 
lioly  affection 

our  Brittany 

chnier.t. 

LOUVET." 

consolation, 

gazed  upon 

)es  and  trust 

ily  from  faith 


ws 


MANHATTANVILLE. 


483 


CHAPTER  XCVII. 

ESCAPE  FROM    THE    JESUITS    IMPOSSIBLE. — MADAM  HARDEY  AGAIN'. 

I  BEGAN  to  think  seriously  what  I  should  do  on  arriving  in  New 
York,  as  I  could  not  come  into  possession  of  my  farm  before  spring. 
All  my  furniture  was  on  board.  If  I  should  sell  it  at  once,  I  should 
b^  forced  to  pay  duty,  which  would  cost  me  thousands  of  dollars.  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do,  would  be 
to  take  a  house  until  spring,  furnish  it,  and  let  it,  keeping  two  or 
three  rooms  for  myself ;  for  I  had  not  forgotten  the  trials  of  a  single 
lady  looking  for  board  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

I  secured  a  large,  commodious  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  which  I 
rented  until  the  first  of  May.  Shortly  after  I  arrived,  I  called  on 
Madam  (ialway,  who  was  then  the  Superior  of  the  Convent  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  at  Manhattanville,  to  give  her  the  letter  that  I  had 
broi  ght  from  their  house  in  Paris. 

She  did  not  even  read  the  letter,  but  begged  me  to  explain  what  I 
desired.  As  soon  as  1  told  her  my  intention  of  building  a  church,  and 
requested  her  to  educate  my  child  for  less  than  their  usual  price,  so 
as  to  leave  me  more  money  to  devote  to  my  work,  she  gave  me  a 
blank  refusal ;  and  said  that  I  ought  to  use  my  money  to  educate  my 
child,  instead  of  building  a  church,  if  I  could  not  afford  to  do  both.  I 
told  her  that  1  had  come  on  to  build  a  church  and  was  going  to  build 
one,  and  gave  her  my  reasons,  none  of  which  seemed  to  remove  her 
impression  that  it  was  a  foolish  undertaking  ;  and  all  that  I  could  say 
to  her  did  not  seem  to  have  the  slightest  effect  in  awakening  her  sym- 
pathies, either  for  me  or  my  work. 

She  rose  and  was  going  to  take  leave  of  me  ;  but  I  refused  to  take 
the  hint,  and  persisted  that  she  should  read  some  of  my  letters.  She 
replied  :  "  They  are  all  in  French,  and  written  by  people  that  I  know 
nothing  about."  "  Then,"  I  replied,  "  take  them  and  give  them  to 
somebody  to  read,  who  does  know."  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
doubtless  considering  what  she  should  do  in  order  get  rid  of  me. 
While  she  was  deliberating,  I  was  beseeching  her.  I  told  her  that 
Madam  Dessoudin  had  assured  me  that  I  could  count  ui)on  their  pro- 
tection.    Said  she  :   '*  Take  your  litters  to  Father  Beaudevin.     He 


m 

{ 

1    !t       »! 

Vi 


.  i 


484 


A   NEW   YORK  JESUIT. 


resides  at  49  West  Fifteenth  Street.  He  is  a  Jesul'.  Show  him  your 
letters  and  tell  him  what  you  proj^ose  to  do.  I  have  a  great  confi- 
dence in  his  judgment :  if  he  thinks  that  we  will  be  doing  a  chiu-ity, 
by  taking  your  child  at  a  reduced  price,  to  assist  you  in  your  under- 
taking, we  will  do  so."  She  then  rose,  handed  me  back  the  letters, 
and  left  the  room. 

I  went  into  the  chapel.  I  was  so  discouraged  and  so  disappointed 
at  my  tirst  step,  that  1  burst  into  tears.  I  was  provoked,  too,  that 
this  l^dy  obliged  me  to  go  to  a  Jesuit,  when  I  had  fully  resolved  not 
to  ha^'e  anything  to  do  w  ith  them,  and  had  even  sacrificed  Frangoise, 
sc  as  to  get  entirely  rid  of  the  order. 

After  earnestly  recommending  myself  to  God,  and  praying  that  He 
would  protect  me  against  the  wiles  of  the  Jesuits,  and  that  1  might 
never  meet  another  Madam  Clahvay,  I  took  out  of  my  pocket  a  little 
book  that  1  had  carried  about  me  since  the  day  I  left  Paris.  I 
opened  it,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  these  words  :  "  Le  d'ecouragemenl 
seul  a  perdu  plus  d^dmes  quj  toutes  les  passions  reunies,  Dans  les 
causes  du  desordre,  de  la  perversete  mrme,  il  tietit  le  premier  rang." 
'•Discouragement  alone  has  ruined  more  souls  than  all  the  i)assions 
together.  It  holds  the  first  place  among  thq.  cau.ies  which  produce 
jnoral  disorder  and  perversity."  Those  words  gave  me  peace.  The 
following  day  I  called  to  see  Father  Beaudevin. 

The  moment  he  entered  the  room,  I  mentally  exclaimed  :  "  Here 
is  a  mate  to  Mother  Galway  !  "  and  I  i)repared  myself  for  the  worst. 

He  read  my  letters,  among  which  was  one  from  Father  Bazin, 
which  he  had  written  to  me  from  St.  Malo.  It  was  a  brief  note, 
which  I  will  insert  ;  for  I  believe  that  1  am  indebted  to  its  few  lines 
for  my  success  widi  Father  Beaudevin. 

"  Hospital  ok  St.  Malo, 

"  yune  13,  1870. 
"  Madam, 

"  Your  last  letter  from  Paris  reached  me  at  St.  Malo  ;  I  wish,  but 
I  scarcely  dare  to  hope,  that  mine  may  arrive  before  your  departure. 
I  have  placed  with  our  janitor  the  little  volume  you  were  so  kind 
as  to  accept. 

"So,  then,  the  sea,  which  I  have  here  beneath  my  window,  is  going 
to  carry  you  far  from  France,  dear  madam  !  but  it  will  not  carry 
away  the  souvenirs  which  you  leave  here  in  the  heirtsof  your  friends. 
May  you  be  happy  in  your  own  land,  to  which  you  return  with  a 


'J, 


|o\v  hill)  your 
great  confi- 

f»g  a  cliant)', 

)our  uiulor- 

|k  the  letters, 

[disappointed 
::ed,  too,  that 
[resolved  not 
pd  Fran^oise, 

ying  that  He 
that  1  might 
socket  a  little 

ft  Paris.  I 
ecoiiragement 
Dans  les 
cmter  ramr." 
the  passions 
iit:h  produce 
peace.     J'he 

ned  :  "  Here 
>r  the  worst, 
ather  Bazin, 
I  brief  note, 
its  i^y/  lilies 

Malo, 
'"•  '3.  1870. 

I  wish,  but  . 
r  departu.ce. 
ere  so  kind 

o\v,  is  going 
1  not  carry 
our  friends, 
turn  with  a 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 


485 


y% 


he^irt  renewed  by  religion,  and  may  God  bless  your  pious  project  !  I 
promise  to  pray  for  you.  I  will  not  forget  it,  nor  the  hope  I  held  out 
to  you  of  sending  a  few  ornaments  for  your  chapel.  You  will  write 
to  me  later,  will  you  not,  on  this  subject? 

"  1  slioulc^  have  been  happy  to  embrace  your  charming  child  a  last 
time,  and  to  make  my  adieux  to  you,  but,  unfortunately,  I  shall  not 
return  to  Paris  till  after  you  have  left.  Pray  for  me  sometimes  when 
your  thoughts  traverse  the  space  that  separates  us ;  in  God  there  is 
no  distance ;  He  is  the  centre  where  we  can  always  meet. 

"  Adieu  again,  dear  madam  ;  believe  in  my  attachment,  and  my 
devout  affection. 

"Yours,  etc., 

"Bazin." 

As  soon  as  Father  Beaudcvin  read  Father  Bazin's  note,  his  manner 
changed,  his  face  assumed  a  more  cordial  expression,  as  he  asked  me 
if  there  was  anything  he  could  do  to  serve  me.  I  told  him  what  I 
wanted,  and  that  Madam  (}alway  had  referred  me  to  him.  "  Why," 
said  he,  "  this  letter  from  their  house  in  Paris  is  all-sufficient." 
"  Madam  Galway  would  not  read  it,"  said  I.  "  1  will  attend  to  it," 
he  replied,  "  and  see  that  your  child  is  received  at  the  convent  on  as 
reasonable  terms  as  possible."  1  then  told  Father  Beaudevin  what 
I  had  come  for.  He  listened  to  me  attentively.  As  soon  as  I  had 
finished,  he  said  to  me  :  "  You  will  succeed.  I  am  sure  you  will." 
I  asked  him,  "  Will  you  be  my  friend  ? "  "  Yes,"  he  replied ; 
and  the  tone  of  sincere  resolution  in  which  he  spoke  gave  me 
confidence  in  the  goodness  of  my  cause  as  well  as  in  its  ultimate 
success. 

1  had  been  in  New  York  but  a  few  weeks  when  my  child  fell  ill. 
The  physician  told  me  to  send  her  to  Manhattanville  at  once.  "  I 
am  not  a  Catholic,"  said  he,  "  I  am  opposed  to  them  ;  but  they  do 
understand  taking  care  of  children  up  there  at  Manhattanville.  The 
air  is  pure  and  their  infirmarian  will  know  just  what  to  do  for  her  ;  for 
she  needs  nursing  and  good  air." 

When  1  (old  the  child  what  the  physician  had  said,  she  replied  :  "1 
am  so  glad,  mamma  ;  for  the  religious  always  know  what  to  do  foi 
little  girls.  When  you  leave  me,  mamma,  I  close  my  eyes,  and  make 
believe  that  I  ain^in  France,  and  that  the  sister  is  sitting  beside  me, 
telling  me  a  story,  and  making  my  doll  a  dress.  Oh,  mamma,  it  was 
so  sweet  to  be  sick  in  France  :  I  used  to  have  such  a  nice  time." 


486 


MOTHER       HARDEY. 


m  .ii^ 


■i"  I 


And  she  began  to  cry,  and  asked  me  how  long  it  would  be  before 
we  would  go  back  to  France.  Could  anything  more  loudly  proclaim 
the  tender  solicitude  that  the  religious  have  for  children,  than  such 
words  from  the  mouth  of  a  sick  child  ? 

One  Sunday  I  went  out  to  Manhattanville,  and  I  met  Madam  Har- 
dey.  We  had  hardly  exchanged  ten  words  before  she  knitted  her  brows, 
like  a  person  who  was  trying  to  recall  something  in  the  past,  that 
time  had  nearly  effaced  from  her  mind,  and  asked  me  :  "  Have  we 
never  met  before  ?  It  seems  to  nie  that  I  have  met  you  before." 
"  Yes,  good  mother,"  I  replied,  "  we  have  met  before ; "  and  I  asked 
her  if  she  remembered  a  poor  young  girl  who  had  come  to  her,  seven- 
teen years  previous,  and  begged  Iier  to  educate  her ;  how  she  had 
agreed  to  do  so,  and  while  this  poor  girl  was  speaking  with  her,  a 
religious  had  come  in,  accompanied  by  a  large  dog,  and  asked  her  if 
the  dog  should  go  too,  and  she  had  replied,  "  Certainly,  for  they  will 
expect  to  see  the  dog  as  much  as  they  will  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mother  Hardey,  with  a  smile,  "  I  do  recollect  about 
the  dog.     But  why  did  not  this  girl  return?" 

I  told  her  that  I  was  that  poor  girl ;  and  I  related  to  her  what  pre- 
vented me  coming  :  how  a  lady  had  threatened  to  go  and  tell  her  that 
Maria  Monk  was  my  mother,  and  said  that  she  would  tear  me  limb 
from  limb,  if  she  knew  who  I  was.  "  Oh,"  exclaimed  Mother  Hardey, 
with  indignation,  "  how  foolish  !  "  When  I  told  her  that  I  had  come 
on  to  build  a  church,  she  did  not  try  to  dissuade  me  from  it,  but  gave  me 
an  encouraging  look,  as  though  she  approved  and  admired  my  courage 
and  zeal. 

At  parting  she  embraced  me,  and  I  left  her  that  afternoon  with 
the  same  sentiment  of  admiration  and  gratitude,  that  I  experienced 
the  first  time  I  met  her,  seventeen  years  before.  The  only  change 
that  I  could  see  in  her  way  that  her  cheeks  had  grown  pale.  The 
first  time  I  saw  her,  they  were  tinged  with  a  deep  roseate  hue  ;  yet 
the  same  sweet  expression,  and  the  same  compassionate  look  and 
smile  which  animated  theni  seventeen  years  ago  still  remained  and 
seemed  to  defy  the  ravages  of  time. 


SMALL  FRY. 


487 


M  be  before 

^'y  proclaim 

1^  than  such 

"aclam  Har- 
fl  her  brows, 
^  I^ast,  that 
'Have  we 
oil  before." 
and  I  asked 
o  her,  seven- 
liow  she  had 
with  her,  a 
asked  her  if 
for  they  will 

3llect  about 

er  what  pre- 
t^'U  her  that 
ear  me  limb 
'ler  Hardey, 
i  had  come 
butgaveme 
my  courage 

moon  with 
xperienced 
»ly  change 
)ale.  The 
•  hiie  ;  yet 
Jook  and 
ained  and 


IT, 


CHAPTER  XCVHI. 


FAUT   TRANCHER    LE    MAL. — THE    "SPRATS." 


I  HAD  hardly  got  my  things  moved  into  my  house,  before  the 
Franco-Prussian  war  broke  out. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Dix  called  on  me  and  tried  to  dissuade  me 
from  keeping  boarders  and  advised  me  to  let  my  house  furnished. 
She  told  me  a  few  of  the  evils  I  would  be  subjected  to ;  but  all  the 
vexations  of  keeping  a  boarding-house,  as  Mrs.  Dix  described  them, 
appeared  to  me  as  nothing,  compared  to  the  position  of  a  single 
lady  looking  for  board. 

I  used  to  deposit  at  Duncan  &  Sherman's.  When  I  told  Mr. 
Duncan  that  I  was  going  to  take  boarders,  he  replied  :  "  Be  careful 
that  you  don't  take  any  single  lady  to  board  :  if  you  do,  your  house 
will  get  a  bad  name." 

The  family  to  whom  I  let  a  portion  of  the  house,  I  will  designate 
by  the  name  of  the  "  Sprats"  (very  small  fishes,  vide  Webster),  and 
the  one  to  whom  I  let  another  portion  I  will  call  the  "  Bees."  I 
wanted  to  please  the  "  Sprats,"  because  they  were  friends  of  Mr. 
Duncan,  and  he  had  recommended  them  to  come  to  my  house,  and 
I  tried  equally  to  please  the  "  Bees,"  becai'se  it  was  Mrs.  Dix's  re- 
commendation that  induced  them  to  come. 

The  "Sprats"  were  poor  and  proud,  the  "Bees"  were  rich  and 
civil. 

Everybody  congratulated  me  for  catching  the  "  Sprats,"  because 
they  were  highly  respectable,  and  "  high  strung."  But  I  afterwards 
lamented  having  caught  them,  and  wished  that  my  net  had  broken, 
before  I  had  succeeded  in  hauling  them  into  the  house. 

Everybody  had  a  word  of  compassion  for  them,  for  they  had  some 
daughters  to  marry ;  and  as  they  were  not  golden  "Sprats,"  it  was 
exceedingly  difficult  for  them  to  find  suitable  mates.  Two  of  them, 
however,  had  succeeded  in  getting  engaged ;  one  of  them  was  en- 
gaged to  a  gentleman  who  was  wealthy  and  of  good  birth.  The 
wedding  day  was  appointed  :  the  guests  assembled ;  and  the  bride 
was  decked  with  her  bridal  wreath  and  veil,  waiting  for  her  future 


ii  Mt 


■     i 


J 


488 


UNHEEDED    CHASTISEMENTS. 


.]■■ 

m 


spouse.  At  last  he  came,  an  J,  to  the  horror  and  amazement 
of  all  present,  he  entered  the  room,  and  audibly  addressed  the 
mother,  in  these  words  :  "  Madam,  the  law  obliges  me  to  marry  your 
daughter ;  but  it  does  not  oblige  me  to  love  her,  or  live  with  her. 
I  have  come  to  fulfil  my  engagement :  shall  the  ceremony  pro- 
<ced?"  Tlie  mother  waved  her  hand,  and  answered:  "No." 
The  bride  expectant  fainted  ;  the  brother  caught  her  in  his  arms ; 
while  the  groom  quietly  descended  the  stairs,  and  went  his  solitary 
way. 

What  happened  the  second  daughter  was  still  more  heartrending, 
but  far  less  humiliating.  She  was  engaged  to  a  son  of  one  of  the 
wealthiest  and  most  estimable  families  in  New  YoTk.  He  had  gone 
to  Europe,  and  was  about  to  return,  when  he  wrote  to  his  betrothed 
to  meet  him  on  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  in  which  he  intended 
to  sail.  Thither  she  repaired  and  was  impatiently  waiting,  on 
the  dock,  for  the  steamer  to  reach  the  shore.  At  last  the  plank 
is  thrown  :  it  touches  the  wharf;  and  she  hastens  towards  the  ship, 
and  wonders  why  he  is  not  on  deck.  She  asks  for  him,  and  is  told 
that  he  had  died  on  board,  and  that  his  body  had  been  thrown  into 
the  sea. 

Both  of  these  were  recent  misfortunes,  which  I  had  seen  com- 
ments upon  in  the  daily  journals.  When  I  learned  that  these  dire 
afflictions  had  happened  to  the  "  Sprats"  who  had  engaged  my  rooms, 
all  my  sympathies  were  enlisted  in  their  behalf,  and  I  earnestly 
prayed  that  God  would  console  then),  and  that  I  might  ever  do  my 
duty  to  a  family,  on  whom  He  had  chosen  to  bring  such  great  sorrow. 

On  account  of  their  excessive  respectability,  and  their  high  position 
in  society,  I  had  let  my  rooms  to  them  for  one-half  their  real  value. 

For  the  mother  assured  me  that  she  could  not  go  one  cent  beyond 
u  .stated  price,  and  that  I  must  take  them  for  that  or  let  them  go. 

They  had  no  sooner  taken  possession  of  their  apartments,  tiian  they 
began  a  series  of  complaints.  The  rooms  were  not  sufficiently  fur- 
nished ;  yet  our  agreement  was  that,  if  1  would  let  them  to  her  at  a 
reduced  price,  I  was  to  add  nothing :  they  would  take  them  just  as 
they  were.  To  please  them,  however,  I  laid  out  a  considerable  sum 
of  money  for  extras. 

I  haa  been  foolish  enough  to  engage  a  maid  to  wait  on  them 
who  was  formerly  in  the  r  employ.  Several  months  passed  before  I 
discovered  that  they  had  had  a  seamstress,  who  frequently  came  and 


ICHTHYOLOGICAL  STUDIES. 


489 


amazement 
kldressed  the 
|o  marry  your 
live  with  her. 
premony  i>ro- 
Ved:    "No." 
in  his  arms ; 
It  his  solitary 

|heartrendin!:r, 
M  one  of  the 
[e  had  gone 
is  betrothed 
he   intended 
waiting,  on 
St  the  plank 
rds  the  ship, 
I,  and  is  told 
1  thrown  into 

d   seen  com- 
at  these  dire 
sd  my  rooms, 
I   earnestly 
ever  do  my 
jreat  sorrow, 
ligh  i)osition 
r  real  value. 
:ent  beyond 
hem  go. 
ts,  than  they 
iciently  fur- 
to  her  at  a 
em  just  as 
lerable  sum 

t  on  them 

d  before  I 

came  and 


■-5' 


worked  by  tlie  day,  and  was  fed  from  my  table,  without  my  knowl- 
edge. My  remonstrances  were  treated  by  the  dowager  with  haughty 
disdain,  which  she  seemed  to  think  sufficient  compensation.  They 
were  constantly  inviting  young  gentlemen  to  dine  with  theiji.  I  was 
expected  to  be  so  overwhelmed  by  the  honor,  tliat  it  seemed  gross 
ingratitude  to  think  of  so  vulgar  a  thing  as  sending  in  a  bill. 

They  would  keep  tradesmen,  who  came  repeatedly  to  dun  them 
for  the  payment  of  bills,  waiting,  interminably,  in  the  hall,  while  they 
chatted  over  die  dinner-table.  And  their  appetite  seemed  not  to 
be  in  tii.^  least  impaired  by  any  compunction  for  this  modification  of 
the  sin,  that  cries  to  heaven  for  vengeance  :  "  the  depriving  the 
laborer  of  his  hire." 

I  exerted  myself  in  every  possil;)le  way  to  please  them.  My  efforts 
in  this  respect  were  taken  as  signs  of  my  utter  subjugation. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  relate  all  tiie  petty  aggravations  and 
gross  injustices  that  I  was  subjected  to  by  the  "  Sprats."  Their  con- 
duct was  just  the  reverse  of  that  of  the  "Bees,"  who  were  as  upright 
and  as  civil  as  the  others  were  impertinent  and  unjust.  I  had  had 
considerable  experience  in  witnessing  how  pride  and  malice  would 
express  themselves,  in  the  actions  and  gestures  of  paupers.  But  these 
"  Sprats,"  for  pride,  insolence,  and  vulgar  airs,  surpassed  anything  I 
had  ever  met  in  hospital  or  poor-house.  I  do  believe  that,  for  inso- 
lence and  presumption,  the  paupers  can  beat  tlie  New  York  shoddy ; 
but  they  could  not  beat  these  "  Sprats."  I  never  met  any  of  them 
in  the  corridors,  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  streets — when  they  would 
throw  upon  me  a  contemptuous  look — without  deigning  to  salute  me 
— but  what  I  would  instantly  feel  like  wishing  to  be  carried  back  to 
the  hospital !  " 

After  I  knew  this  family  better,  I  could  plainly  see  the  chastening 
hand  of  God,  in  the  humiliation  and  sorrow  which  had  befallen  them ; 
and  I  wondered  how  they  could  still  be  so  hardened  as  not  to  be 
touched  by  it,  and  durst  continue  to  live  in  so  much  i)ride  and 
heartlessness.  The  explanation  can  only  be  found  in  that  pride  itself, 
which  hardens  and  blinds  us,  and  perverts  our  judgment  in  regard  to 
ourselves  and  what  is  due  to  others. 

When  I  compared  the  manners  and  principles  of  these  "Sprats" 
with  the  simplicity,  modesty,  and  cordiality  of  the  nobility  abroad, 
no  one  need  doubt  me,  when  I  say  that  I  pitied  them  for  their  igno- 
rance.    It  was   seldom  that  I  ever  felt  the  slightest  resentment  to- 

21* 


If; 


HI 


^:; 


'F 


\     •  i 


490 


ICHTHYOLOGICAL  STUDIES. 


i 


wards  them  ;  mats  il  faut  trancher  le  mal  (we  must  strike  at  evil) : 
and  if  I  dwell  on  this  family,  it  is  in  the  hope  that  the  "Sprats" 
may  one  day  read  this  chapter,  which  I  dedicate  to  them,  and  that 
their  eyes  may  be  opened  and  they  may  see  themselves  as  they  really 
are.  Then  I  trust  that,  instead  of  bemg  incensed  against  me  for 
having  told  the  truth,  they  will  humble  themselves,  as  we  are  all  taught 
to  do,  and  that  when  they  are  converted  they  will  set  a  good  example 
to  all  like  them,  and  that  all  who  have  imitated  them  in  their  evil 
doing  may  imitate  them  in  their  repentance. 

The  "Sprats"  formerly  lived  in  the  same  street  with  Mr.  's 

family.    Everybody  knows  the  Misses to  be  pretty  blondes,  and 

exceedingly  well-bred. 

The  Misses  told  me  that  they  seldom  ventured  to  pass  the 

"Sprats's"  house  because  the  Misses  "Sprats"  would  sit  in  the  win- 
dow and  make  faces  at  them  as  they  passed ;  that  they  would  pass 
through  another  street,  just  to  avoid  passing  the  Sprats's  house,  for 
fear  of  being  insulted.  Nor  are  they  the  only  ladies  residing  in  the 
same  street,  who  can  testify  to  the  same  annoyance. 

Such  conduct  shows  to  what  depravity  pride  will  lead  us.  For 
certainly  it  would  be  har  1  to  fmd  emulators  of  such  conduct,  except- 
ing around  the  Five  Points,  as  they  used  to  be,  before  there  was  a 
iiiission  there. 

While  I  was  trying  to  eke  out  these  five  months,  I  would  often  ask 
myself :  which  suffers  most,  a  woman  keeping  a  boarding-house, 
and  trying  to  please  a  family  who  belong  to  the  "  first-class  society," 
or  a  single  lady  looking  for  board.  In  comparing  the  miseries  of 
both  these  positions,  I  have  always  found  them  so  evenly  balanced, 
that  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to  decide. 

If  a  woman  aspires  to  become  sanctified,  and  cannot  enter  a  con- 
vent, either  of  these  positions  will  afford  a  splendid  novitiate  ;  though 
both  are  fraught  with  perils. 


'i. 


KIND   WORDS  FROM   FRANCE. 


491 


te  at  evil)  ; 

"Sprats" 
f",  and  that 

tliey  really 
^ist  jiie  for 

all  taught 
xl  example 

their  evil 

I  Mr -'s 

londes,  and 

\o  pass  the 
in  thewin- 

[ would  pass 
house,  for 

fling  in  the 

us.  For 
it-t,  except, 
liere  was  a 

rl  often  ask 
iing-house, 
s  society," 
miseries  of 
balanced, 

ter  a  con- 
e ;  though 


CHAPTER    XCIX. 

AID    FOR   THE   VICTIMS   OF    THE    FRANCO-PRUSSIAN   WAR.- 

WOOD    AS   A    PROPHET. 


-FERNANDO 


Months  passed,  and  I  received  no  line  from  Laferiifire  ;  which  si- 
lence was  eating  like  a  cancer  in  my  heart ;  yet  I  never  lost  hope. 
From  the  moment  the  war  broke  out  I  believed  more  firmly  than  ever, 
that  God  had  inspired  me  to  leave  France  in  answer  to  my  prayers. 
All  my  friends  wrote  to  me,  telling  me  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  to 
divine  Providence  for  having  inspired  me  ;  for  they  all  now  had  faith 
in  me,  and  Madam  de  Montalembert  more  than  all  the  rest,  from 
the  service  that  Providence  threw  it  in  my  way  to  render  her. 

In  the  early  part  of  December,  1870,  I  received  the  following 
letter : 

•'  RlXENSART    PAR  AtTIGNIES, 

'*  Belgium,  Nov.  25111,  1870. 
"Mv  Dear  and  Excellent  Friend, 

"Have  I  not  every  appearance  of  ingratitude  towards  you?  I  have 
received  your  letters,  full  of  so  much  affection  for  me,  for  him  who  is 
no  more,  for  my  daughters,  and  finally  for  my  cherished  past,  vanished, 
never  more  to  return  in  this  world,  and  for  my  sad  widowhood. 

'*  You  pray  for  him  who  exists  no  more  on  this  earth,  except  in  my 
remembrance ;  but  whom  I  see  unceasingly  in  spirit,  and  whom  we 
miss  SO  much  in  the  midst  of  the  calamities  that  we  encounter  in  our 
exile. 

**  I  have  before  me  your  charming  letter  of  the  26th  of  July,  contain- 
ing the  details  of  your  new  life,  and  your  relations  with  the  Sacred 
Heart,  with  the  Jesuits,  and  with  F.  Beaudevin,  of  whom  you  have 
given  me  a  description  which  assures  me  that  your  soul  is  in  good 
hands.  This  rejoices  me  greatly;  for  with  the  great  ?rdor  and  frank- 
ness you  have,  and  which  I  admire  sincerely,  as  one  of  the  most  pow 
erful  levers  for  good,  it  is  necessary  to  have  some  counsel  from  time 
to  time,  to  moderate  your  ardor. 

"  I  see,  too,  that  your  dear  little  girl  is  an  inmate  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  and  that  those  ladies  are  very  kind  to  her.  Tell  them  that  I 
thank  them  for  it,  because  I  love  you  tenderly^  and,  more  than  that, 


•  ' 


i'    P! 


1 


)« 


lii 


B    H 


It 


W 


1 


.      U        I: 


492 


A   FREN'IIWOMAN   ON   FRANCE. 


that  I  have  a  true  esteem  for  you,  which  to  my  mind  is  a  sentiment 
very  sweet,  and  very  rarely  met  with.  You  seek  flod,  His  glory,  the 
sulvation  of  souls,  and  your  own  ;  you  desire  to  see  Him  one  day, 
and  you  strive  after  all  these  ends  (so  forgotten  by  the  most  part  of 
men,  and  women,  too),  with  all  the  strength  of  your  nature,  and  of 
your  warm  heart.  What  a  foundation  {ox  profound  sympathy  !  One 
has  so  rarely  the  opportunity  of  working  out  these  great  things,  and 
God  has  given  you  the  signal  grace  of  using,  with  reason  and  intelli- 
gent energy,  the  most  practical  means  to  attain  these  great  designs 
with  which  you  are  inspired.  Oh  !  what  cause  for  thanksgiving  on 
your  part,  and  of  joy  for  your  true  friends  ;  I  feel  that  1  am  one  of 
them  when  I  think  of  the  great  pleasure  I  enjoyed  the  first  time  we 
met — and  every  time  I  have  seen  you  since. 

"  I  managed  to  put  in  order,  before  the  war,  all  my  affairs,  and  settle 
my  children's  ;  then  arranged  all  my  husband's  treasured  paj^ers,  so 
that  I  could  bring  them  here,  out  of  the  way  of  all  danger.  I  should 
have  been  heart-broken  to  have  left  them  in  the  frightful  position 
in  which  everything  is  among  us,  on  account  of  this  horrible  war, 
worthy  of  the  Sioux,  the  Blackfeet,  the  redskins  of  America.  Per- 
haps they  are  less  barbarous  than  the  Prussians.  Is  it  not  an  un- 
heard-of thing,  that  Christians  should  practise  such  cruelties,  in  this 
age  of  civilization  ? 

"But,  my  dear  friend,  in  what  a  condition  has  the  Imperial  Govern- 
ment left  our  unhai)py  France !  To  what  an  extent  has  France 
been,  that  is,  the  greater  part  of  the  people — the  ignorant  peasants 
and  honest  men  of  the  masses — the  dupe  of  this  hideous  crowned 
knave  !  VVould  you  believe,  that  he,  and  his  intimate  friends,  were 
embezzling  the  funds  of  the  War  Department,  using  them  for  all 
sorts  of  base  purposes,  and  political  intrigues,  in  order  to  purchase 
partisans  for  the  Empire  ?  Our  taxes  yielded  500,000,000  to  the 
Budget,  and  when  the  war  broke  out,  there  was  almost  nothing  in  the 
arsenals,  and  magazines  ;  we  were  not  ready. 

"  This  imbecile  sovereign,  whom  so  many  among  the  higher  classes 
persisted  in  believing  skilful,  no  sooner  declared  war  like  a  true 
fool,  than  he  filled  our  army  with  parlor  generals,  incapalle,  co7'etous, 
and  egotistically  ambitious.  Bazaine  is  the  type  of  these  last ;  he  has 
not  ceased  to  think  of  benefiting  his  personal  affairs,  hoping,  after 
the  shameful  capitulation  of  Sedan,  to  play  the  role  of  Regent  of  the 
kingdom  for  the  Prince  Imperial.     He  reserved  his   army  for  this, 


A   CRY    FOR   HELP. 


493 


a  sentiment 
lis  glory,  the 
pirn  one  day, 
"lost  part  of 
tiire,  and  of 
Patliy !     One 
■t  things,  and 
and  intelli- 
Teat  designs 
Jnksgiving  on 
Jl  am  one  of 
first  time  we 

irs,  and  settle 
•d  pajjers,  so 
-r.  I  should 
itful  position 
horrible  war, 
nerica.  Per- 
not  an  un- 
elties,  in  this 

;rial  Govern- 
has  France 
ant  peasants 
ous  crowned 
friends,  were 
:hem  for  all 
to  purchase 
ooo  to  the 
•thing  in  the 

gher  classes 
hke  a  true 
t',  covetous^ 
ast ;  he  has 
:>ping,  after 
gent  of  the 
ly  for  this, 


R- 


instead  of  fighting  for  the  wolfire  of  iManre.  Without  any  other 
calculation,  he  thus  allowed  the  Prussians  ti  iie  to  starve  the  city  of 
Metz  ;  and  when  he  had  no  more  provisio'is,  ho  shamefully  surren- 
dered, without  fighting,  giving  up  to  our  encnies  (what  is  without  ex- 
ample) a  considerable  amount  of  artillery,  accumulated  in  Metz,  in- 
stead of  destroying  it  so  that  it  could  not  be  turned  against  us,  as  the 
Prussians  immediately  did  against  our  poor,  new,  little  army  of  the 
Loire. 

"  All  these  acts  of  unheard-of  dishonor,  on  the  part  of  a  marshal  of 
France,  would  be  incomprehensible,  if  behind  them  there  was  not 
some  intrigue  planned  by  the  Prussians  with  this  cynical  personage. 
Everything  goes  to  prove  that  some  promise  had  been  made  of  the 
Imperial  restoration,  provided  that  the  provisions  and  the  fortress  of 
Metz  were  delivered  intact,  the  Prussians  having  the  pretension  to 
keep  it,  along  with  Strasbourg  and  Lorraine.  Thus  the  very  soil  of 
France  has  been  sold  to  the  Prussians,  in  the  hope  of  maintaining  a 
dynasty  in  this  country,  so  weakened  by  its  iinancial  crimes,  and  its 
military  blunders.  We  have  now  350,000  prisoners  in  Germany,  and 
27  departments  invaded,  burned,  utterly  devastated.  The  suffering 
there  is  beyond  all  description.  The  accounts  that  reach  us  from 
these  departments,  so  prosperous  three  months  ago,  are  heart- 
rending. 

"  France,  in  other  times,  assisted  America  to  gain  her  independence 
and  her  wealth  ;  my  grand-uncle,  de  Lafayette,  went  to  her  assistance  : 
he  expended,  himself  alone,  1,500,000  francs  to  equip  a  vessel. 

"  Many  others  among  our  gentry,  M.  de  Rochambeau  among  the 
number,  hurried  to  lend  the  assistance  of  their  arms  to  your  country 
at  the  risk  of  their  lives. 

"  Can  America  forget  all  this  ?  Can  she  rest,  like  England,  in  a 
state  of  cold  and  heartless  non-interventio;i  ?  Shall  we  always  be 
the  chivalrous  nation  who  aid  all  the  world  in  their  distress,  and  to 
whom  no  nation  renders  the  like?  I  often  ask  myself  sorrowfully,  if 
such  will  really  be  the  case  with  a  nation  so  powerful,  so  rich,  and 
free,  as  your  own  !  I  must  at  the  same  time,  in  order  to  be  just  and 
gratefiil,  say  that  we  have  some  warm  friends  in  England,  and  that 
these  neighbors  have  already  sent  us  help  in  money,  provisions,  etc., 
for  the  plundered. 

"  I  read  in  the  papers  that  a  few  hunded  American  volunteers  had 
landed  at  Brest,  and  were  fighting  for  us.     But  what  is  this  small  num- 


!     (fl 


B  ;i  I 


:  I  If 

IF  i 


m 


.  t  (- 


,  i 


^^'' 


494 


CLAIMS   ON   OUR   GRATITUDE. 


ber  against  900,000  Germans  ?  Shall  we  not,  at  least,  have  a  large  and 
general  subscription  for  our  burnt  villages,  which  we  reckon  by  hun- 
dreds ?  for  our  three  hundred  thousand  unha|)py  prisoners,  whose  gar- 
ments are  in  rags,  and  who,  from  the  depth  of  Germany,  ask  pitifully 
for  stockings,  flannel,  and  snoes,  to  protect  them  against  the  rigors  of 
winter?  They  would  need  three  hundred  thousand  of  each  of  these 
articles;  and  the  Prussians  are  draining  us  by  requisitions,  not  only 
in  money,  but  of  hundreds  of  dozens  of  all  these  articles  of  clothing, 
for  their  own  army.  They  empty  all  our  warehouses,  and  leave  us 
in  many  cities  (as  at  Rheims)  only  the  empty  shelves  of  the  shops. 
Try,  my  dear  friend,  and  organize  a  committee,  which  will  occupy 
itself  (piickly  and  generously,  for  the  relief  of  our  distress.  If  each 
person  gave  only  three  or  four  francs,  we  would  have  an  immense  sub- 
sidy, and  it  would  scarcely  tell  at  all  on  the  most  modest  purse  in 
America.  We  deserve  this  fraternal  sympathy,  these  alms  of  affection 
and  gratitude,  since,  without  us,  you  Americans,  so  free,  hajipy  and 
rich,  vvould  not  perhaps,  have  arrived  so  quickly  at  all  that  you  pos- 
sess,— all  which  I  congratulate  you  on  from  my  heart,  tliough  not 
without  a  little  sensitiveness  at  the  indifference  wliich  you  show  to  our 
actual  suffering. 

"  The  good  king  Louis  XVI.,  who  had  not  a  very  great  mind,  but 
whose  heart  was  noble  and  generous,  loved  you  ;  he  compassionated 
your  griefs,  a  id  he  assisted  your  weakness.  Then,  let  this  great  Ameri- 
can nation  in  its  turn  pity  our  wrongs  without  number,  in  so  un- 
equal a  struggle.  If  we  have  sinned,  in  accepting  the  detestable  gov- 
ernment which  has  just  fallen  (and  you  know  hew  many  of  the  most 
noble  souls  among  us,  my  husband,  the  Due  de  Brogl'e,  M,  Cochin, 
M.  de  Corcelles,  M.  Daru,  M.  Buffet,  M.  Vicard,  and  so  many  others, 
have  never  admired,  never  recognized  it,  excep  as  the  public 
enemy),— if  we  have  sinned  in  this  point,  thanks  to  the  system  of  uni- 
versal suffrage  exercised  among  us  by  the  ignorant  masses,  the  Ame- 
ricans ought  not  to  look  at  that,  but  at  the  actual  situation  of  a  peo-'^ 
pie  ijho  have  heretofore  held  out  their  hand  to  them  in  their  reverses. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

"  But  adieu,  dear  friend ;  may  God  inspire  you  ;  and  if  you  can 
create  a  movement  in  our  behalf,  you  know  well  how  good  a  work  you 
will  perform. 

"  i  embrace  you  tenderly. 

"Ctsse.  M^rode  de  Montalembert." 


■e  a  large  and 
kon  by  hun- 
"s,  whose  gar- 
,  ask  pitifully 
the  rigors  of 
[each  of  these 
'IIS,  not  only 
|s  of  clothing, 
and  leave  us 
'f  the  shops, 
will  occupy 
:ss.     If  each 
Jimmense  sub- 
dest  purse  in 
us  of  affection 
e,  happy  and 
that  you  pos- 
t.  1/iough  not 
u  show  to  our 

eat  mind,  but 
iiipassionated 

great  Anieri- 
her,  in  so  un- 
"testable  gov- 
'  of  the  most 

M.  Cochin, 
many  others, 
the  public 
►'Stem  of  uni- 
-s,  the  Ame- 
on  of  u peo-\ 
dr  reverses. 

if  you  can 
a  work  you 


ERT. 


FATHER  HECKER. 


495 


"P.  S.  November  26th. 

"  I  re-read  my  letter  before  sealing  it,  and  I  wish  to  add,  as  a  post- 
script, that  it  will  be  a  favor  if  you  will  send  me  some  news  of  your  church. 
It  occurred  to  my  mind  tonight,  that,  if  you  need  your  influence 
among  your  acquaintance  for  iljc  erection  of  this  dear  church,  which 
determined  you  to  quit  Paris,  you  must  not  expend  it  in  furthering 
those  objects  that  1  insisted  upon  with  so  much  warmth  in  my  letter. 
The  Due  d'Aumale  has  just  made  (under  the  name  of  his  secretary, 
M.  Laugel)  a  very  fine  and  noble  appeal  to  America;  let  us  hope  it 
will  be  listened  to.  The  papers  give  this  document,  which  is  as 
truthful  as  it  is  moving  and  eloquent. 

"  If,  in  order  to  succeed  in  building  your  church,  dear  friend,  you 
must  lead,  like  your  patroness,  a  laborious  and  hidden  life  («uch  as  you 
seem  already  to  have  imposed  upon  yourself),  do  not  leave  it,  to  de- 
vote youraelf  to  other  good  works  ;  one  cannot  do  all  kinds  of  good 
at  a  time. 

"  You  know  I  never  could  bear  (when  we  used  to  talk  together  in 
Paris)  the  devout  ladies  who  sought  to  make  use  of  you  :  our  public 
calamities  have  given  me  neither  the  right,  nor  the  wish,  to  do  the  like 
at  present. 

"  If  you  could  not  do  what  I  asked,  without  the  inconvenience  I 
have  pointed  out,  be  convinced  1  will  never  for  an  instant  doubt  your 
affection,—  (and  I  embrace  you  now  again  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  my  very  dear  and  tender  friend,  for  such  I  know  you  to  be) 
— do  not  then  act  as  if  it  needed  to  be  proved  to  me.  When  you 
see  F.  Hecker  tell  him  again  that  I  can  never  console  myself  for 
having  missed  him  this  spring,  and  I  beg  him  again,  and  earnestly, 
not  to  forget  me,  nor  my  husband.  Walking  here  in  the  court  of 
this  chateau,  where  this  Rev.  Father  interested  so  much  him  who  is 
no  more,  and  myself,  I  reflect  very  often  upon  the  account  of  his 
conversion  that  he  gave  us  one  beautiful  evening  which  I  shall  never 
forget.  His  words  con.sole  me  still  when  I  am  very  bad,  and  I  re|)eal 
them  from  time  to  time  as  if  I  read  thiMU  on  the  seats  and  the  pave- 
ment of  the  court  near  the  little  round  table  which  is  there  still,  and 
by  which  my  poor  husband,  already  so  sick,  was  seated  ! 

"  If  you  knew  the  horrors,  the  ruin  skilfully  planned,  worthy  of 
cannib.ils,  that  these  Prussians  (so  cruel  by  nature)  systematically 
commit  everywhere  ! 

"If  you  have  the  time,  and  are  conversant  with  your  political  afiairs, 


ii:' 

'')Pf™ 

I- 

%  1 

^ 

'"  '   f 

* 

\i 


< !' 


■'!«' 


tf^?    * 


! 


( 


M    'it:  1 


11 


496 


THE   CRY   HEEDED. 


tell  me  if  there  is  any  truth  in  the  rumor  that  Americi  is,  at  this 
time,  purchasing  territory  of  Russia  so  as  to  help  her  indirectly  to 
fortify  herself,  contrary  to  the  treaty  signed  with  France  ;  taking  ad- 
vantage of  our  misfortunes  to  rupture  without  good  faith,  this  treaty 
relating  to  the  Black  Sea. — Assisting  the  oppressor  of  Poland  to  become 
more  powerful  !  What  a  horror  !  Would  it  be  permitted  for  a  country 
so  far  to  forget  all  justice  as  to  think  only  of  its  material  profit  ?  In 
this  case  republican  egotism  would  be  equal  to  monarchical  ! 

"  M^RODE  DE  MONTALEMBERT." 

Mile,  de  Blossieres,  who  was  Vice-President  of  the  Ladies'  Fair  for 
the  Relief  of  the  French  Soldiers,  called  to  see  me,  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Father  Hecker,  and  it  was  agreed  that  she  should 
take  Madam  de  Montalembert's  letter,  and  call  on  some  of  the 
ladies  of  the  committee,  and  influence  them  to  vote,  at  their  next 
meeting,  that  a  part  of  the  money  which  still  remained,  should  be 
sent  to  Madam  de  Montalembert. 

I  warned  Mile,  de  Blossieres  not  to  mention  my  name,  or  to  inti- 
mate that  the  letter  was  addressed  to  me,  as  I  was  very  unpopular  in 
New  York,  and  the  ladies  might  refrain  from  voting  in  favor  of  my 
friend,  just  to  si)ite  me,  if  they  knew  I  so  earnestly  desired  it,  several 
of  the  ladies  on  this  committee  being  my  inveterate  enemies. 

Mile,  de  Blossi«ires  is  a  lady  of  rare  intelligence  and  tact. 

At  the  next  meeting  she  read  to  them  Mme.  Montalembert's  letter. 
These  ladies  immediately  decided  to  send  Mme.  de  Montalembert 
twenty  thousand  dollars  {$20,000)  to  distribute  among  the  poor  and 
disabled  soldiers.  The  money  was  forwarded  to  her  in  due  time,  and 
later  several  thousand  dollars  more,  all  owing  to  the  influence  and  ex- 
ertions of  Mile,  de  Blossidres.  ' 

January,  187 1,  came,  and  I  tried  to  collect  for  my  church.  I  had 
not  yet  seen  any  of  those  Americans,  who  were  indebted  to  me  for 
favors  I  had  done  them  in  Paris.  But  once  I  began  my  calls,  I  was 
soon  undeceived  in  regard  to  their  unselfishness,  and  whenever  1  de- 
scended their  steps,  I  thought  of  the  old  saying  :  "  Graiitude  is  a  lively 
sense  of  favors  to  come." 

They  nearly  all  laughed  at  me  at  the  very  idea  that  I  should  expect 
them  to  subscribe  to  a  church. 

One  day  Mr.  Fernando  Wood  called  on  me,  and  about  the  first 
thing  he  said  to  me  was :  "  You  are  not  capable  of  managing  a  house 


FERNANDO   WOOD'S   PROPHECIES. 


497 


pnci  IS,  at  this 
indirectly  to 

k  ;  taking  ad- 
(itli,  this  treaty 
land  to  become 
M  tor  a  country 
fial  protit  ?  In 
:hical  ! 

fALEMBERT." 

.adies'  Fair  for 
'ith  a  letter  of 
hat  she  should 
some  of  the 
,  at  their  next 
led,  should  be 

me,  or  to  inti- 
y  unpopular  in 
n  favor  of  my 
sired  it,  several 
leuiies. 
tact. 

Mnbert's  letter. 
Montalenibert 
;  the  poor  and 
due  time,  and 
luence  and  ex- 

fnirch.  I  had 
ted  to  me  for 
ly  calls,  I  was 
henever  1  de- 
fiufe  is  a  lively 

ihould  expect 

bout  the  first 
igiiig  a  house 


like  this.  You  ought  to  write  a  book.  You  would  make  more 
money  at  that  than  you  will  keei)ing  boarders.  Why  don't  you  sit 
down  and  write  a  history  of  your  life  ?  " 

I  replied :  "  I  never  could  write  my  life,  because  there  would  have 
to  be  too  many  blanks ;  the  most  interestii.g  part  would  have  to  be 
left  out." 

Said  he  :  "  If  you  are  going  to  remain  a  fervent  Catholic  you  will 
become  poor."  I  replied  :  "  I  don't  care  if  I  do  ;  I  mean  to  perse- 
vere." He  applauded  my  resolution ;  but  1  did  not  speak  the  truth, 
for  I  had  a  perfect  horror  of  poverty,  and  I  did  not  believe  that  I  was 
running  any  such  risk.  I  disliked  though  to  hear  him  make  such  a 
prediction.  For  I  looked  upon  Fernando  VV^ood  as  a  kind  of  pro- 
phet, although  I  never  heard  of  any  of  his  followers  adoring  him  as 
such.     My  belief  in  him  as  a  prophet  arose  f.om  these  two  facts  : — 

Two  days  before  I  sailed  for  liurope  for  the  first  time,  Mr.  Wood 
called  on  me  one  morning,  to  give  me  letters  of  introduction  to  some 
of  his  friends  in  Paris.  I  asked  him  (meaning  it  as  a  compliment)  if 
he  would  be  the  next  President.  "  No,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  will 
not,  for  the  next  President  will  be  assassii.ated  ;"  which  prophecy 
was  verified,  eighteen  months  afterwards,  by  the  assassination  of  Mr. 
Lincoln. 

A  few  days  after  I  arrived  in  Paris,  when  I  returned  from  America 
after  buying  my  farm,  Mr.  Wood  called  on  me  one  day  at  the  abbey. 
He  had  just  come  from  Dieppe,  where  the  Emperor  had  been  staying 
for  a  short  while.  Said  he  :  "  I  was  here  on  the  15th  of  August,  to 
see  the  Napoleonic  feast.  There  will  not  be  another  such  feast  here 
next  year  on  the  15th  of  August ;  for  by  that  time  this  whole  govern- 
ment will  have  crumbled  to  pieces." 

When,  therefore,  Mr.  Wood  predicted  that  I  would  become  poor,  it 
annoyed  me,  for  I  remembered  how  truly  he  had  predicted  those  two 
events.  It  annoyed  me  so,  that  I  at  last  said  to  him  :  "  Oh,  there  is 
no  danger  of  my  ever  becoming  i)oor.  I  am  going  to  look  out  for 
that."  He  replied  :  "Then  you  will  change  your  convictions:  be- 
cause, if  you  persist  in  this  religious  fervor,  il  will  certainly  bring  you 
to  po\  Tty." 

The  '  'ter  part  of  January  I  w.ote  a  long  letter  to  Laferriere,  tell- 
ing him  everything  that  had  happened  me,  since  I  left  France;  that 
I  still  believed  that  (lod  had  inspired  me  to  come  on  here,  and  would 
yet  reward  me  for  all  the  sacrifices  I  was  making,  and  the  humilia- 


1 ,1  i  III 


It! 


H 


lr-\ 


.1 


498 


DOUBTS   DISPELLED. 


tions  that  I  was  suffering.  I  begged  him  to  write  me  how  he  nas 
situated,  and  if  he  needed  a  'lonie  to  come  to  me ;  and  I  said  t'.tat  if 
he  was  poor,  I  would  willingly  labor  to  support  him. 

1  concluded  by  telling  him  how  truly  grateful  I  was  for  all  that  he 
had  ever  done  for  me,  and  that  I  even  found  a  consolation  in  the 
misfortunes  that  had  befallen  him,  believing  that  they  would  give  me 
an  opportunity  of  proving  to  him  my  devotion. 


CHAPTER  C. 

CONFIRMATION    OF    MY    MISSION   TO    BUII.D    A   CHURCH. 

I  NOW  passed  nearly  all  my  time  looking  up  my  old  friends  and 
acquaintances  (few  of  whom  it  had  not  been  in  my  power,  at  one 
time  in  my  life,  to  oblige),  and  begging  them  to  assist  me  to  build  niy 
church. 

Meeting  with  nothing  but  rebuffs  and  disappointments  wherever  I 
went,  I  soon  became  discouraged,  and  was  willing  to  believe  that 
God  had  only  induced  me  to  leave  France  to  escape  the  war,  and 
that  the  thought  of  building  a  church  was  all  a  delusion  ;  that  He  hp.d 
not  inspired  me  to  build  it. 

I  commenced  deliberating  what  to  do.  I  went  and  got  my  Bible, 
wishing,  in  my  heart,  that  opening  it  I  might  find  such  words  as 
would  lead  me  to  suppose  that  our  Lord  forbade  me  to  build  the 
church,  I  knelt  down  before  my  crucifix,  and  holding  up  my  Bible 
towards  it,  I  exclaimed  :  "  O  Beloved  Saviour,  speak  to  me,  and  let 
me  know  Thy  will ;  and  whatever  it  is,  I  will  try  to  do  it."    . 

I  opened  the  Bible,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  these  words : 

"2  Thus  speakelh  the  Lord  of  hosts,  saying,  This  people  say,  The 
time  is  not  come,  the  time  that  the  Lord's  house  should  be  built." 
(Hagg.  I.  2.) 

I  closed  the  book  impatiently,  saying :  "  I  know,  Lord,  that  the 
people  say  that  the  time  is  not  come  to  build  Thee  a  church.  But 
tt;ll  me  what  T/w//  sayest ;  that  is  what  I  want  to  know.  I  implore 
Thee  tell  me  what  Thou  sayest." 

I  then  opened  tiie  Bible  a  second  time,  and  read  : 

"  7  Thus  saith  the  Lord  of  hosts  \  Consider  your  ways. 

•'  8  Go  up  to  the  mountain,  and  bring  wood,  and  build  the  house  ; 


and  I  will  t 

(Hagg.  I.  ' 

My  hear 

"  How  goo 

will.     I  wi 

and  wilt  su 

and  had  r 

The  door  ( 

He  noti 

explain  th' 

suade  you 

"Fat 

late.     If 
put  a  stoi" 
I   conft 
had  recoi 
him  the 
lightened 
continue 
noon  the 
believed 
it.      I   n 
mands,  I 
to  the  111 
When 
letter  in 
dollars, 
1   state 
take  th 
the   tini 
manage 
whose 
larly  ca 
and  if 
she  wo 
1  re( 


how  he  Has 

'isaid  t:.atif 

|r  all  that  he 
(ation  in  tlie 
mid  give  ii,e 


JRCH, 

friends  and 
'ower,  at  one 
-  to  build  my 

ts  wherever  I 
believe  that 
the  war,  and 
that  He  had 

,'Ot  my  Bible, 
ch  words  as 
to  build  the 
up  my  Bible 
>  nie,  and  let 


Jle  say.  The 
Id  be  built." 

rd,  that  the 

lurch.     But 

I  implore 


the  house 


SILENCED   IF   NOT  CONVINCED. 


499 


and  I  will  take  pleasure  in  it,  and  I  will  be  glorified,  saith  the  Lord." 
(Hagg.  I.  7-) 

My  heart  ])alpitated  with  joy.  I  kissed  the  Bible  and  exclaimed  : 
"How  good  Thou  art,  Lord,  to  give  me  such  a  proof  that  it  is  Thy 
will.  I  will  now  persevere ;  for  1  know  that  Thou  wilt  be  with  me, 
and  wilt  surely  help  me."  I  began  pacing  the  floor,  wild  with  delight, 
and  had  not  jnit  my  Bible  away  when  I  heard  a  rap  at  my  door. 
The  door  opened  and  the  servant  announced  Father  Beaudeviu. 

He  noticed  my  astonishment  at  seeing  him,  and  he  began  at  once  to 
explain  the  object  of  his  visit.  Said  he  :  "  I  have  come  to  try  to  per- 
suade you  to  give  up  the  idea  of  building  that  church,  for  I  fear  that" 

"Father,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "you  are  just  ten  minutes  too 

late.  If  you  had  come  ten  minutes  sooner,  one  word  would  have 
put  a  stop  to  it." 

I  confessed  to  him  my  despondency,  and  how  I  had  doubted,  and 
had  recourse  to  the  Bible,  to  know  the  will  of  God.  I  then  showed 
him  the  two  passages  which  I  had  successively  opened  at ;  his  face 
lightened  up  ;  he  slightly  bowed  his  head  and  said,  "That  is  enough  ; 
continue  ;  I  shall  not  try  to  dissuade  you  fruin  it."  From  that  after- 
noon the  question  of  building  the  church  was  settled  in  my  mind.  I 
believed  that  (Jod  had  ins])ired  me  to  come  to  New  York  and  build 
it.  I  now  had  but  one  thought,  and  that  was  to  e.xecute  His  com- 
mands, believing  that  my  reward  would  be,  that  He  would  unite  me 
to  the  man  1  loved. 

When  I  wrote  to  Madam  de  Montalembert  that  I  had  i)ut  her 
letter  in  circulation,  and  it  had  succeeded  in  getting  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  which,  on  account  of  the  exchange,  only  made  93,000  francs, 
1  stated  the  fixcts  to  her,  just  as  they  were,  and  begged  her  not  to 
take  the  trouble  to  write  me  an  acknowledgment,  but  to  utilize 
the  time  that  she  would  waste  on  me,  by  thanking  the  ladies  who 
managed  the  French  Bazaar,  and  particularly  Mile,  de  Blossieres,  to 
whose  efforts  and  zeal  she  was  chiefly  indebted,  and  to  be  particu- 
larly careful  not  to  mention  my  name,  as  I  was  very  uni)opular  here, 
and  if  she  gave  me  any  share  of  her  thanks  the  probability  was  that 
she  would  not  get  any  more. 

1  received  from  her  the  following  answer  : 


•ll' ! 


1'  ' 


V 


Soo 


THANKS   FROM   FRANCE. 


"  RlXENSART  TAR  ATTIGNIES,    BELGIUM, 

**  February  12th,  1871. 

*'  My  Dear  and  Excellent  Friend, 

"  How  shall  I  express  my  gratitude  for  your  incredible  efforts,  and 
for  the  splendid  success  with  which  (iod  has  crowned  them  !  My 
cousin,  de  Merodc,  was  loild  with  joy  at  being  able  to  relieve  so 
many  poor  people  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  Ardennes,  and  other 
places,  out  of  that  magnificent  sum  of  93,000  francs,  which  he  re- 
ceived, and  at  once  made  use  of.  I  wot'ld  have  liked  to  embrace 
you  at  once,  and  express  my  gratitude  ;  but  i  commenced  by  execu- 
ting faithfully  your  instructions  :  I  wrote  to  ^^lle.  de  Blossirres,  so 
that  she  might  personally  exjjress  my  gratitude  to  all  the  ladies  of  the 
Bazaar,  whose  great  zeal  has  given  us  this  efficacious  relief." 

After  relating  to  me  the  multiplicity  of  affairs  that  she  has  been 
engaged  in,  Madam  de  Montalembert  goes  on  to  say  : — 

"  This  is  why  my  letter  to  Mile,  de  Blossieres  was  delayed  a  little,  and 
why  I  have  allowed  you,  dear  friend,  to  wait  so  long  for  my  thanks. 
They  filled  my  soul,  however,  and  I  was  anxious  to  exjiress  them 
to  you  and  the  good  ladies,  who  so  generously  assisted  poor  France. 

"  France  is  at  present  in  the  chaos  of  electoral  discord  ;  our  politi- 
cal training  is  still  wretched,  and  this  frightful  Empire  which  has  just 
given  way,  in  bequeathing  to  us  shame  and  ruin,  both  military  and 
financial,  has  contributed  not  a  little  to  our  moral  incapacity. 

"  M.  de  Bismarck  and  the  new  Emperor  of  (iermany,  all  bathed  in 
our  blood,  are  for  us  at  present  what  the  Emperor,  that  first  scourge 
of  Europe  who  finished  his  days  at  St.  Helena,  was  in  Prussia.  Let 
us  not  cease  to  hope  therefore. 

"  What  a  charming  portrait  you  have  drawn  me  of  Madam  Hardey  ! 
Embrace  your  child  (this  charming  future  young  lady)  for  me. 

"  How  will  you  find  time  to  read  my  letter,  with  all  that  you  have 
to  do  in  managing  your  large  house?  But  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  you 
can  succeed  in  building  your  church. 

"  I  press  you  to  my  heart. 

"  COMTSSE.  M^RODE  DE  MONTALEMBERT." 


One  evening  I  went  to  the  chapel  in  St.  Xavier's  Church,  and  im- 
plored the  Blessed  V^irgin  to  intercede  for  me,  that  God  would  inspire 
me  what  name  I  should  give  my  church. 


A   CHURCH   TO   ST.   GENEVIEVE. 


501 


BELGIU\f, 

¥"0'  \2t;i,  i87,_ 

fble  efforts,  and 
k'tl  thein  !     \u, 
fo  relieve  so 
^"t^s,  and  other 
^s,  which  he  re- 
^■ed  to  embrace 
F'lced  by  execii- 
'le  BlossiiTes,  so 
pie  ladies  of  the 
relief." 

|at  she  has  been 

pyed  a  little,  and 
for  my  thanks. 
express  them 
W  poor  France, 
ord ;  our  politi- 
-  vvhich  has  just 
'th  military  and 
apacity. 
y,  all  bathed  in 
lat  first  scourge 
1  Prussia.     Let 

adam  Hardey ! 
for  nie. 
that  you  have 
satisfied  if  you 


tLEMIiERT." 

urch,  and  im- 
would  inspire 


While  1  was  praying,  all  that  St.  Genevieve  had  done  for  me  came 
up  vividly  before  my  mind,  and  I  recollected  that,  the  first  time  I  had 
knelt  before  her  shrine,  I  had  promised  her  a  beautiful  present  if  she 
would  grant  my  reciuest.  I  remembered  how  she  had  obtained  for 
me  everything  I  asked  of  her  that  day,  and,  for  an  inhtant,  I  was  con 
founded  at  my  own  ingratitude ;  for  1  had  never  done  anything  more 
than  put  a  few  francs  into  her  poor  box,  and  offer  her  a  few  flowers. 
I  asked  God  and  the  Saint  to  forgive  me,  and  looking  up  at  the 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  I  asked  her :  "  Mother,  shall  I  dedicate 
my  church  to  St.  Genevieve  ?  " 

Instantly  1  felt  as  if  a  flash  came  over  the  statue,  and  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin  had  replied  :  "  Yes,  dedicate  it  to  St.  Genevieve."  The  same 
impression  was  produced  on  my  mind  as  had  happened  three  times 
at  St.  Mande ;  and  each  of  these  times  I  was  just  as  sure  that  the 
Blessed  Virgin  had  answered  me  as  I  Avas  sure  of  my  own  existence. 


CHAPTER  CI. 

A    JESUIT   ON    THE   TEMPORAL    POWER. 

I  LIKED  the  music  at  St.  Xavier'%  Church,  and  was  often  drawn  to 
High  Mass  solely  on  account  of  it.  One  Sunday  in  Advent  I  went 
there.  At  that  time  the  whole  Catholic  worM  was  protesting  against 
the  outrage  commited  by  Victor  Emanuel  on  the  temporal  power  of 
the  Pope. 

After  the  gospel,  a  young  Jesuit  mounted  the  pulpit,  Father  Mer- 
rick, a  stranger  to  the  congregation,  who  had  been  invited  to  speak 
on  the  temporal  power  of  the  Holy  Father.  When  he  raised  his 
head  to  address  the  audience,  I  was  struck  with  the  earnestness  of  his 
manner ;  and  his  remarks  served  to  remove  many  of  my  prejudices, 
and  to  put  in  a  rational  light,  what  had  hitherto  seemed  to  me  incon- 
sistent with  the  spiritual  character  of  the  Pope's  office,  and  obstruc- 
tive of  his  mission. 

He  showed  that  this  power  had  served  as  the  safeguard  of  the  in- 
dependence of  the  spiritual  authority.  He  argued  against  the  right 
of  a  mere  majority  of  the  unorganized  people  to  change  an  established 
form  of  government,  regardless  of  vested  rights,  and  the  written,  or 


1 

'i 

.  ! 


1 


I. 


% 


Hi  i 


1(1 


m 


H. 


502 


A   HOUSE   IN    THE   COUN'^'KV. 


unwritten  constitutions  by  which  n  "  '  ive  their  being.  Even 
though  the  Roman  people  should  b_  susa-  ;es  restive  under  the 
Pope's  temporal  rule,  their  will  or  caprii.  iieed  ■  '^  be  admitted  to  be 
a  sufficient  reason  for  the  ignoring  of  those  vested  t  ghls,  which  the 
Catholic  world  has  in  the  civil  independence  of  the  Popes ; — rights, 
which  it  enjoys  by  the  prescription  of  centuries,  and  for  which  it  has 
paid,  over  and  over  again,  even  in  the  material  treasures  and  benefits 
it  has  lavished  upon  Rome  and  its  territory.  Without  these  benefits, 
both  Rome  and  the  Papal  States  would  probably  long  since  have 
been  reduced  to  a  wilderness,  about  whose  government  it  would  not 
be  worth  while  to  quarrel  much.  This  certainly  would  have  been  a 
simplification  of  the  Roman  question. 


CHAPTER    CII. 

"THE  GOOD  COUNTRY  PEOPLE." 

Spring  had  come.  I  was  in  possession  of  my  farm.  After  it  was 
paid  for,  the  cottage  enlarged  and  repaired,  and  my  stables  mounted, 
I  found  that  I  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  had  little  to 
show  for  it,  compared  to  the  exi^ense. 

Oa  the  27th  of  June  I  left  New  York  for  my  country  home.  For 
months  I  had  been  anxiously  anticipating  that  happy  day,  for  I  longed 
to  breathe  again  the  free  air  of  the  mountains,  and  to  have  my  Ht- 
tle  house  in  order,  so  that  if  ever  I.aferri6re  answered  my  letter 
about  coming  to  America,  1  should  be  prepared  to  receive  him.  In- 
deed, I  never  could  divest  myself  of  the  belief  that  we  would  pass 
many  happy  hours  there  together.  Such  were  my  dreams  of  living  in 
the  country;  to  have  a  little  home  daintily  furnished,  and  have  La- 
ferriere  come  and  reside  with  me  until  such  time  as  we  could  bolli 
return  to  France.  Those  were  my  dreams;  but  the  real'ty  can  only 
be  told  in  "  What  I  know  about  farming." 

One  of  the  religious  of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  had  intro- 
duced me  to  a  widow  lady,  whom  I  will  call  Mrs.  Voice.  She  was 
an  accomplished  nmsician,  and  sang  divinely.  She  was  to  come  and 
pass  the  summer  with  me.  1  thought  1  could  build  my  church  in  a 
few  months,  and  its  success  would  be  assured  by  having  a  choir. 


ened 

Son 
me. 

T' 


'a 


RURAL   DELIGHTS.' 


503 


being.     Even 
Jive  iiiider  the 
[adinittcd  to  be 
[its,  wliich  the 
|opes;-nghts, 
|r  which  it  lias 
jes  and  benefits 
these  benefit.s, 
fig  since  have 
It  it  would  not 

have  been  a 


After  it  was 
iblcs  mounted, 
d  had  Jittle  to 

ry  home.     For 
ly,  for  I  longed 
»  have  my  lit- 
red  my  letter 
iive  him,     hi- 
ve would  pass 
lis  of  living  i,i 
md  have  La- 
e  could   bolh 
li'ty  can  only 

art  had  intro- 
:e.  She  was 
to  come  and 
^  church  in  a 
a  choir. 


I  had  engaged  a  young  man  and  his  wife  to  take  care  of  my  farm. 
He  knew,  and  so  did  all  my  friends,  of  my  inexpressible  devotedness 
to  my  little  daughter. 

The  evening  before  1  expected  Mrs.  Voice  to  arrive,  who  was  to 
bring  my  child,  this  man  got  beastly  drunk,  and  1  ordered  him  at 
once  to  leave  the  place ;  for  it  was  one  of  the  conditions  I  made 
when  I  engaged  him,  that  if  he  ever  became  intoxicated,  he  forfeited 
his  place. 

He  was  determined  not  to  go,  and  begged  and  im]3lored  of  me  to 
let  him  remain  only  a  few  days,  that  was  all  that  he  asked,  just  a  few 
days.  That  evening  I  surprised  him  in  conversation  with  his  wife. 
She  was  weeping,  and  looked  idiotic  from  fright.  I  caught  enough  of 
their  conversation  to  know  that  there  was  a  question  of  my  child,  and 
1  Wondered  what  it  could  be,  when  I  heard  his  wife  exclaim  :  '-That 
would  be  too  cruel ;  you  could  not  treat  her  so  !  "  The  man  an- 
swered her,  with  an  oath,  that  she  should  see  that  he  would. 

I  called  the  wife,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  what  her  husband  had 
said.  "Oh,"  she  replied,  "don't  let  him  stay;  he  has  often  threat- 
ened to  steal  your  child,  and  now  he  declares  that  he  will  do  it." 
Said  I  :  "Steal  my  child!  what  could  he  do  with  my  child?"  The 
wife  replied  :  "  He  would  keep  li^^r  until  you  gave  him  a  large  reward 
to  bring  her  back."  1  could  not  believe  that  a  devilish  spirit  like 
that  could  exist  in  a  human  heart,  and  particularly  in  the  heart  of  this 
man,  whom  I  had  known  for  years,  and  whom  I  had  always  tried  to 
help,  and  to  whom  I  had  even  then  advanced  money. 

I  asked  him  if  what  his  wife  told  me  was  true  ? 

He  did  not  deny  having  made  the  threat,  but  declared  that  he  had 
said  it  in  fun.  I  refused  to  accept  his  excuse,  and  insisted  that  he 
should  leave ;  then  he  vented  upon  me  the  vilest  abuse,  and  threat- 
ened me  in  every  conceivable  way. 

Some  of  the  neighbors  were  passing.  I  called  them  in  to  protect 
me.     He  then  left,  and  shortly  afterwards  his  wife  followed  him. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Voice  came  and  brought  me  my  child.  Mrs. 
Voice's  father  accompanied  her. 

They  were  both  afraid  that  they  would  not  be  able  to  remain,  for, 
at  that  season  of  the  year,  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  hire  a  man,  as 
every  owe.  was  engaged  for  miles  around.  I  told  him  that  1  had 
placed  my  house  under  the  protection  of  St.  Joseph,  and  I  had  not 
the  slightest  doubc  but  what  the  saint  would  send  me  a  man. 


;.     fl'i.  \ 


■V 


mt 


504 


I   ENGAGE   A   RUSTIC   SWAIN. 


'til  < 


•  ■  On  the  morning  of  the  5th  of  July  1  was  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs, 
Voice,  who  was  expressing  to  me  her  doubts  and  fears  about  my  be- 
ing able  to  get  ;'  inan-SL-rvant,  and  to  whose  anxieties  I  made  but  the 
one  reply,  "Oi'  Saint  Joseph  will  take  care  of  nie,  never  you  foar.  I 
have  bt'.?n  praying  real  hard  this  morning."  These  words  had  hardlv 
escaped  my  lips,  when  1  heard  some  one  spring  over  the  fence,  with 
the  agility  of  a  hare,  ar,d,  turning  round,  1  saw  a  sprightly  little  Irish- 
man, who,  without  the  least  ceremony,  came  into  the  house.  lie 
wore  a  ruffled  shirt,  and  a  large  red  rose  in  his  button-hole.  The 
moment  I  saw  him,  I  said  to  Mrs.  Voice  :    "There  is  my  man." 

Without  waiting  to  hear  what  he  came  for,  I  asked  him  :  "What  is 
your  name,  sir?"  He  replied:  "My  name,  madam,  is  Mr.  Costello; 
but  everybody  around  here  calls  me  Mike."  Said  I  :  "  You  will  per- 
mit me  then  to  call  you  Mike,  will  you  not  ?  "  "  Certainly,  madam." 
Said  I  :  "  Don't  you  want  a  job  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  he,  shaking  his 
head,  "  1  am  dressed  up  too  much  to  work."  I  began  coaxing  him. 
In  a  few  minutes  I  made  him  forget  his  clothes,  and  he  said  that  he 
would  pitch  right  in  and  help  me. 

Mike  was  as  ingenious  and  active  an  Irishman  as  one  might  wish 
to  meet.  He  set  to  work,  and  did  more  in  an  hour  than  any  other 
man  I  had  had  would  do  in  a  day^  Towards  night,  when  I  offered 
to  settle  with  him,  he  said  to  me  :  "  Madam,  1  have  tak  ;n  a  fancy  to 
you,  and  1  would  like  to  hire  out  with  you  by  the  month.  J  think 
that  you  and  I  would  get  along  lirst-rate  together." 

1  answered  :  "  I  thought  that  you  were  engaged  to  Deacon 
Reed?"  He  rei)lied  :  "Oh,  I'll  vHiit  the  Deacon  for  you,  if  you 
will  take  me."     Said  I  :  "  Would  that  be  right  ?  " 

"The  Deacon,"  he  answered,  "has  lots  of  men  working  for  him  : 
you  have  nobody  at  all.  I  feel  sorry  for  you  ;  for  everybody  is  trying 
to  take  advantage  of  you.  You  need  a  smart  man  to  overlook  things, 
some  one  who  will  take  an  interest  in  the  house.  Besides,  I  like  the 
looks  of  that  woman  in  black  :  "  meaning  Mrs.  Voice — "  I  think  she 
is  a  mighty  pretty  woman,  and  can't  she  sin^ !" 

I  was  overjoyed  thai  he  was  so  anxious  to  come  and  live  with  me, 
and  I  engaged  iiim  on  the  spot.  Mrs.  Voice  and  her  father  con- 
gratulated me  upon  my  good  luck.  ,;, 

The  next  day,  after  he  had  worked  until  nearly  noon,  Mike  came 
to  me,  with  his  eyes  lowered  on  the  ground.  He  appeared  greatly 
embarrassed,  and  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke.     At  last 


ien  with  Afrs. 
laboiit  my  be- 
[niade  but  the 
•r  you  fear.  1 
Ms  iiad  hardly 
|ic  fence,  witli 
ly  little  Jrish- 
huuse.     lie 
>n-hole.     The 
|ny  man." 
J'»:  "VVhatis 
[Air.  Costollo; 
Vou  will  per- 
iiily,  madam." 
I,   shaking  his 
coaxing  him. 
le  said  that  he 

ne  might  wish 

ban  any  other 

when  J  offered 

1<  Ml  a  fancy  to 

:>nth.     J  tliink 

■d  to  Deacon 
3r  you,  if  you 

king  for  him  : 
body  is  trying 
erlook  things, 
les,  I  hke  the 
"  I  think  she 

live  with  me, 
father  con- 
Mike  came 
ared  greatly 
ke.     At  last 


WITH    WIKE  AND   TWO    CHILDREN. 


505 


he  caught  hold  of  some  high  grass,  and  began  breaking  it,  while  he 
stammered  out  :  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  madam,  when  I  engaged  with 
vou,  lliat  1  had  a  wife.  She  Hves  down  on  the  corner,  and  she  doesn't 
like  to  have  me  stay  up  here  nights,  and  leave  her  down  there  all 
alone."  "  Why,"  said  I,  "  bring  her  u})  here  :  it  is  just  what  1  want ; 
she  can  cook  and  do  the  housework.  I  am  very  glad  that  you  have 
a  wife." 

He  thanked  me,  and  went  off  to  his  work.  A  few  hours  later,  he 
came  to  me  again,  appearing  more  embarrassed  than  before.  With- 
out raising  his  eyes,  he  said  to  nie  : — "  Madam,  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that  my  wife  has  got  a  little  baby,  about  seven  months  old.  Her 
name  is  Delia,  the  cunningest  little  thing  that  you  ever  saw  in  your 
life.  She  never  cries  a  whimper  :  all  my  wife  does,  after  she  nurses 
her,  is  to  i)ut  her  on  the  floor,  and  she  will  sit  there  and  amuse  her- 
self for  hours ;  so  that  my  wife  can  do  just  as  much  work  as  though 
she  had  no  baby  at  all.  It  wont  cost  anything  extra  to  feed  her.  AV'hat 
am  I  going  to  do  with  the  baby?"  "Why,  Mike,"  said  I,  "you  can- 
not sejjarate  the  child  from  its  mother :  of  course  the  baby  is  in- 
cluded :  she  must  bring  the  baby  along." 

After  he  had  finished  his  work  and  was  ready  to  go  home,  he  came 
to  me  again,  and  said  he  : — "Madam,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  had 
a  little  son,  about  three  years  old  ;  we  call  him  Neillie.  He  is  very 
delicate,  never  eats  anything  :  it  would  cost  nothing  to  keep  him — 
never  stays  in  the  house  with  his  mother,  but  is  always  hanging  around 
me, — never  speaks,  and  kee^JS  so  still  that  you  would  not  imagine 
there  was  a  child  on  the  place.  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  him?" 
"  Mike,"  said  1,  "  how  many  more  children  have  you  ?"  "  Oh,  ma- 
dam," he  replied,  "  J  have  no  more  :  I  have  only  two."  "  Well," 
said  I,  "you  can  bring  them  both  along." 

In  a  few  days,  Mike  and  his  family  were  installed  in  my  house. ' 

The  first  day,  the  "  cunning  little  thing,  whose  name  was  Delia," 
screamed  the  whole  time,  in  spite  of  the  father's  and  mother's  com- 
bined efforts  to  i)acify  her.  T'he  following  morning  I  heard  an  in- 
fantine voice  swearing  like  a  corsair.  I  rushed  down  stairs  to  see 
what  it  meant,  and  I  found  "the  delicate  little  Neillie,  who  never 
spoke  a  word,"  cursing  my  child,  who  was  earnestly  listening,  trying 
to  catch  his  words. 

The  instant  I  appeared  Neillie  scampered  away,  and  my  child  ran 
up  to  me  exclaiming  :  "  Mamma,  I  cannot  understand  Neillie's  Eng- 
22 


;  I 


'i  ,;  II 


;:■( 


mit 


!!'l 


r 


5o6 


AND   MOTHKIJ,    COUSIN,   COW   AND    PIG. 


I 


lish.  Tell  it  to  me  in  French."  Said  I  :  "It  would  be  as  ditlicnlt 
for  me  to  put  it  into  French,  as  it  is  for  you  to  understand  it  in  iMig. 
lish  ;"  I  told  the  parents  that  they  nnist  prevent  their  boy  from  com- 
ing  to  the  front  part  of  the  house;  which  prohibition  the  parents  did 
not  seem  to  like. 

Things  continued  in  this  way  for  several  days,  until  my  ears  were 
fairly  stunned  by  the  cries  of  the  baby  and  the  oaths  of  the  boy. 

Since  they  had  moved  in,  I  had  noticetl  an  old  woman  hani,Mng 
round  the  gate,  and  I,  at  last,  asked  Mike  who  siie  was,  and  what  she 
wanted.  "  Madam,"  he  rei)lied,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  it's  my  mother, 
and  it  is  breaking  the  old  woman's  heart  to  be  separated  from  tiie 
children.  I  am  afraid  it  will  kill  her,  if  she  cannot  be  with  them  ; 
for  she  walks  up  the  hill  every  day  to  see  them.  She  is  not  very 
strong,  and  she  doesn't  eat  much."  "Mike,"  said  I,  "is  she  strong 
enough  to  keep  those  children  (juiet?"  "  Why,  madam,"  he  replied, 
"she  has  always  taken  care  of  them."  "Thank  goodness  !"  said  I  ; 
"go  and  bring  her  in,  and  give  them  up  to  her  ;  and  I  will  consider 
that  she  well  earns  her  living  if  she  succeeds  in  keei)ing  them 
still." 

'I'he  house  was  in  the  greatest  confusion.  \Vc  were  arranging 
and  setting  up  the  furniture,  but  the  greatest  disorder  still  reigned  in 
the  kitchen.  'I'he  meals  were  served  at  all  hours  in  the  day  :  baking 
after  baking  was  thrown  into  the  swill :  half  of  the  time  we  ^yele 
without  bread  ;  and  a  greater  part  of  the  time  the  meat  had  si)oiled 
for  want  of  care. 

Mike  came  to  me  one  day,  and  said  he  forgot  to  tell  that  he 
had  a  cousin  who  lived  under  the  hill,  who  was  a  thrifty  servant-girl, 
and  asked  me  if  I  would  be  good  enough  to  engage  her,  because  his 
wife  had  too  much  to  attend  to.  I  engaged  the  cousin.  The  same 
afternoon  he  came  to  me  again,  and  began  as  usual  :  "  Madam,  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  had  a  cow.  She  is  worth  a  hundred  dollars ; 
but  I  will  let  you  have  her  for  seventy,  and  you  can  pav  me  for  her 
whenever  you  choose." 

Said  I  :  "I  will  take  her." 

A  few  days  af"terwards  he  came  to  me  again.  Said  he  :  "  Madam, 
them  two  little  pigs  of  yours  don't  eat  up  half  the  swill.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  I  have  a  fme  ]jig.  She  is  worth  twenty-five  dollars,  but 
I  will  sell  her  to  you  for  fifteen."  Said  I  :  "  I  will  take  her."  A  week 
rolled  by,  and  he  came  to  me  again.     "  Madam,"  said  he,  "  I  forgot 


as  difficult 
|h1  it  in  iMiir. 
|jy  from  coin- 
p  parents  did 

iiy  cars  were 

lio  boy. 

nan   liani^'int; 

|and  wliat  sho 

my  mother, 

ted  from  the 

e  with  them  ; 

i  is  not  very 

is  she  strong 

,"  he  replied, 

CSS  !  "  said  I ; 

will  consider 

eei)ing    them 

ere  arranging 
itill  reigned  in 
i  dav  :  bakinf' 
ime  we  were 
It  had  spoiled 

'  tell  that  lie 
/  servant-girl, 
',  because  his 
I.  The  same 
:  "  Madam,  I 
dred  dollars ; 
IV  nie  for  her 


;  :  "  Madam, 
1  forgot  to 
t'  dollars,  but 
sr."  A  week 
le,  "I  forgot 


FATHER  TANDY. 


507 


to  tell  you  that  I  have  a  fine  lot  of  hens  and  a  potato-patch,  and  I 
would  like  to  sell  them  to  you  cheap." 

"Mike,"  said  I,  "stop!  don't  recollect  anything  else  :  you  have 
renienibeied  enough.  In  order  to  get  you,  it  seems  that  1  must 
take  all  I'-eland  with  you.  I  began  to  count  the  things  whirh  he 
had  added  to  himself  since  I  bargained  to  take  him.  There  was  his 
wife,  his  baby,  his  boy,  his  mother,  his  cousin,  his  cow,  and  his  pig,  to 
which  he  wanted  to  add  his  hens  and  his  potato-patch.  I  thought 
1  had  (juite  enough  already,  for  1  found  that  they  made  a  large  sum  in 
addition.  J'.ut  soon  the  reader  will  see  how  1  subtracted  them  by 
short  division  off  of  my  place,  all  of  them  excepting  the  pig,  which 
was  the  remainder. 


CHAPTER  cm. 

A   MEEK    LAMB,    AND    A    MON-LIKE    SHEPHERD. 

As  soon  as  I  came  to  reside  on  my  farm,  I  tried  to  make  friends 
with  the  parish  priest,  Father  Tandy,  who  resided  in  Amenia.  I 
was  determined  to  conciliate  him,  so  that  he  would  not  be  making 
complaints  against  me  to  the  Archbishoj) ;  and,  if  possible,  I  was 
going  to  try  tc  get  him  to  go  and  speak  a  good  word  for  me  to  His 
Giace. 

The  first  Sunday  I  went  to  Mass  in  Amenia,  he  made  a  short  dis- 
course. The  moment  he  turned  round  to  ad  Iress  the  people,  I  was 
(luite  taken  aback,  for  I  saw  in  him  a  formidable  adversary.  But  in- 
stantly I  decided  on  my  mode  of  attack  ;  I  must  be  gentle  with  him, 
and  kill  him  with  kindness  ;  for  it  was  the  only  possible  way  that  such 
a  man  could  be  caught.  When  Mass  was  over,  I  went  into  the 
sacristy,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Voice  and  her  father.  The  moment 
I  addressed  the  Father,  I  saw  that  his  mind  was  already  made  up  in 
regard  to  me.  He  received  me  very  coldly,  and  looked  at  me  frown- 
ingly.  Mrs.  Voice  and  her  father  were  received  by  him  with  a  most 
gracious  manner  and  complacent  smile. 

To  appear  very  frank  and  ingenuous,  I  launched  out  at  once  about 
my  church.  His  first  words  were  :  "  I  would  advise  you  to  go  and 
see  the  Archbishop,  before  you  begin  it."     "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  that  will 


n  * 


'\lf  ! 


I  111       i    ' 

! 


'it 


:^i 


MB 


i 


;o8 


PARING  THE   LION'S   CLAWS. 


be  all  right ;  as  I  intend  to  deed  it  to  the  diocese,  it  will  give  you  a 
parish  the  more."  He  replied  :  "  I  have  as  many  parishes  now  as  1 
can  attend  to.  But  I  understand  that  you  are  going  to  build  it  across 
the  line.     You  take  my  advice,  and  go  and  see  the  Archbishop." 

I  only  spoke  with  him  a  few  moments ;  but,  during  that  short  in- 
terval, he  advised  me  three  times  to  go  and  see  the  Archbishop.  I 
begged  him  to  call  and  see  .ne,  and  see  what  a  lovely  situation  for  a 
church  it  was,  and  what  a  beautiful  little  house  I  had  ;  I  was  sure  he 
would  be  pleased.  I  tried  to  appear  as  meek,  as  harmless,  and  as  in- 
nocent as  a  lamb ;  and  well  I  niight,  for  I  felt  that  I  was  stepi)ing  on 
the  claws  of  a  lion,  by  putting  up  a  church  on  the  borders  of  his 
parish. 

In  a  few  days,  we  all  called  on  him  at  his  house,  when  I  renewed 
my  gentle  attacks.  But  his  manner  towards  me  as  much  as  said  :  "  I 
know  very  well  what  you  want ;  but  I  am  not  to  be  caught  that 
way."  This  dc._v  he  advised  me  four  times  to  go  and  see  the  Arch- 
bishop. Shortly  afterwards  he  returned  our  call.  Tlie  best  things  in 
the  house  were  spread  before  him  ;  if  it  had  been  the  Archbishop  him- 
self, there  could  not  have  been  more  fuss  made  ;  and  if  there  had 
been  a  fatted  calf  on  the  farm,  1  believe  we  would  have  killed  it. 

After  a  collation,  we  all  started  out  to  climb  the  hill,  where  the 
foundation  of  the  church  was  already  laid.  Wliile  we  were  mounting 
it.  Father  .ndy  said  to  me  again,  but  this  time  rather  coaxingly  : 
*'  Why  don't  you  go  and  see  the  Archbishoi)  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  '. 
is  too  late  now  ;  for  I  have  already  made  the  contract,  and  some  of 
the  money  is  already  paid."  "  VV^ell,  then,"  he  continued,  "put  it 
over  in  New  York  State." 

In  a  moment  more  we  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  a  mag- 
nificent view  broke  suddenly  upon  us.  A  beautiful  valley  lay  at  or.r 
feet,  studded  with  villages,  hillocks,  and  mounts.  Directly  in  front  of 
us,  far  in  the  distance,  could  be  discerned  the  outlines  of  the  Hoosack 
Mountains,  whose  peaks  dimly  rose  above  a  circle  of  deep  blue  haze 
like  a  vision  of  peace. 

Father  Tandy  was  uni)repared  for  the  natural  beauty  of  this  rustic 
view,  and  '■•e  instantly  fell  a  victim  to  its  charms.  For  a  moment 
his  wiiole  soul  iippeared  enamored  with  the  scene,  which  seemed  to 
render  him  oblivious  of  his  parochial  rights  and  sense  of  self-])rest'r- 
vation.  He  stood  erect,  an  .1  stretching  forth  his  hand,  as  though  ho 
would  bless  the  ground  on  which  he  stood,  he  exclaimed  :    "  God 


I 


Fn 

i-a 

I'r 

h( 

se^ 

vii 

ac 

w 


|l  give  you  a 
jes  now  as  I 

[lild  it  across 
jisliop." 
fat  short  in- 
Ihbishop.     I 
liation  for  a 
J  was  sure  he 
|ss,  and  as  in- 
ste[)i)ing  on 
frders  of  his 

n  I  renewed 
as  said  :  "I 
caught  that 
lee  the  Arch- 
est things  in 
thbishop  hini- 
if  there  liad 
killed  it. 
ill,  where  the 
sre  niountinir 
r  coaxijigly  : 
'  said  I,  ".■ 
and  some  of 
lied,  "put  it 

liere  a  niag- 
:;y  lay  at  oiu- 
ly  in  front  of 
ihe  Hoosack 
p  blue  haze 

>f  this  rustic 

a  moment 

seemed  to 

self-preser- 

s  though  he 

ed:    "God 


HE   ROARS   "GENTLY   AS   A  DOVE. 


509 


created  this  spot  for  His  church.  If  I  were  stationed  here,  I  would 
never  leave  it :  I  would  make  everybody  come  up  here  and  worship 
God." 

This  time  it  was  our  turn  to  be  taken  by  surprise ;  for  we  were 
totally  uni)repared  for  the  outburst  of  approbation,  and  his  gesture, 
his  words,  and  his  looks,  showed  plainly  that  he  sanctioned  my 
work. 

As  we  returned  to  descend  the  hill,  I  threw  a  grateful  look  on  the 
valley  and  over  the  hills.  That  spot  became  dearer  to  me  than 
ever.  I  felt  that  it  had  rendered  me  a  service  :  it  had  effected  for 
me,  in  an  instant,  what  I  might  not  have  been  able  to  accomplish  in 
years  ;  it  had  ensnared  Father  Tandy,  and  made  him  forge':  himself, 
so  far  as  to  be  willing  to  have  me  build  a  church  across  the  line. 
Never  afterwards  did  he  repeat  that  ominous  advice,  "Go  and  see 
the  Archbishop."  The  lion  was  tamed,  I  had  nothing  more  to  fear 
from  him,  at  least  for  the  present,  for  from  the  moment  he  stood  on 
the  spot  where  the  foundation  of  the  church  was  laid,  whenever  1  be- 
sought him,  to  say  "yes;"  that  he  would  take  charge  of  the  little 
church,  after  it  was  finished,  he  never  said  "  no"  but  on  the  con- 
trary would  smile  as  though  he  could  not  have  refused  to  take  charge 
of  a  dozen  such  churches,  even  though  they  were  built  across  the  line. 


CHAPTER  CIV. 

LAP'ERRIERE'S    last    LETl'ER. — DISCOURAGED — I     AM     REASSURED     BY 

THE    BIBLE. 

The  position  of  the  Imperialists  was  becoming  worse  and  worse  in 
France,  and  I  lived  in  daily  expectation  of  receiving  a  letter  from 
I-aferriere,  accepting  my  offer.  I  fancied  that  the  misfortunes  of  the 
French  would  be  the  foundation  of  my  own  hai)i)iness ;  for  I  ever 
hoped  that  they  would  be  the  means  of  driving  I.aferriere  to  me,  to 
seek  a  home  and  <:onsolation.  I  had  arranged  my  house  with  the  sole 
view  of  pleasing  him,  and  there  were  moments  that  I  woulil  revel,  in 
advance,  at  his  joyful  surprise,  after  crossing  the  ocean,  to  find  in  a 
wilderness  a  little  home  furnished  with  many  things  that  were  in  his 


» 


'■f 


I; 


ill 


I  ■ 


<        4- 


Sio 


THE  LONG-WISHED-FOR   LETTER. 


apartment,  when  we  first  met.  He  had  sent  them  to  me  when  I 
went  to  St.  Mande,  to  till  up  those  spacious  rooms.  There  was  his 
chair,  his  table,  his  lamp,  and  many  little  objects  that  would  remind 
him  of  the  past ;  and  even  some  of  his  segars  were  there, — until  Fa- 
ther Tandy  came,  and  then  they  were  sacrificed  to  him. 

It  w^as  tlie  13th  or  14th  of  July.  Nearly  everything  was  arranged: 
there  was  nothing  left  to  be  done,  but  to  hang  a  picture  or  place  an 
ornament  here  and  there,  when  I  received  a  letter.  It  was  from 
France,  and  was  addressed  to  me  in  his  handwriting,  and  bore  liis 
seal.  I  had  not  received  a  line  from  him  since  the  morning  that  his 
valet  brought  me  that  note,  and  handed  it  to  me,  just  as  I  was  going 
to  take  the  train  for  Havre,  more  than  a  year  before  ;  and  not  a  day 
had  dawned,  since  I  place  1  my  foot  on  the  shores  of  America,  that  I 
did  not  awake,  thinking  and  hoping  that  the  mail  might  bring  me  a 
letter  from  him,  perhaps  stating  the  day,  and  even  the  hour,  when  I 
should  be  his  bride. 

All  these  fond  dreams,  which  had  buoyed  my  sj^irits  ui)  through  so 
many  trials,  crowded  ui)on  me,  as  1  perused  the  following  pages  : 


"Chateau  dk  Elkcukres, 
'•'June  28,  1 87 1. 
"  Mv  Dear  Ciiii.r), 

"  I  was  i)leased  and  moved,  at  the  kind  souvenir  that  you  addressed 
to  me  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Your  letter  found  me  at 
Flecheres,  where  1  had  just  returned,  after  an  absence  of  nine  moniiis. 

"  I  passed  all  that  time  in  foreign  parts,  not  being  able  to  remain  in 
France,  without  being  exposed  to  all  kinds  of  annoyance  and  enmity. 
You  will  understand  how  much  I  suftered  in  seeing  my  country  rav- 
aged, invaded,  and  not  to  be  able  to  go  to  her  succor ;  it  was  one  of 
the  greatest  griefs  of  my  exile. 

"  Since  you  desire  to  know  what  I  have  done,  in  the  midst  of  these 
great  catastrophes,  I  will  tell  you,  in  a  few  words,  all  that  happened 
to  me. 

"'J'he  4th  of  September  1  was,  as  was  my  duty,  at  my  jjost  in  the 
'I'uileries,  beside  the  Ri^ente,  who,  badly  counselled,  iliil  not  do 
all  that  was  necessary  in  order  to  try  to  save  the  throne  of  her 
son.  I  gave  advice  which  was  not  listened  to,  and,  instead  of 
making  head  against  the  storm,  they  i)referred  to  Hy.  The  Empress 
left  the  Palace,  on  the  4th  of  September,  at  half-past  three  \  I  stayed 


(t 


lie  when  I 

fi'e  was  Ills 

I"  1(1  rt'iniiul 

-until  Fa. 

arranged  : 
^r  place  an 
t.  was  from 
Id  bore  liis 
(ng  that  his 
was  going 
not  a  day 
Irica,  that  1 
[bring  nie  a 
)ur,  when  I 

through  so 
ipages  : 

LKCIIKRKS, 

It  addressed 
ijund  lue  at 
ineinoniiis. 
i  remain  in 
ind  enmity, 
ountry  rav- 
vas  one  of 

Ist  of  these 
Jiai)[)ened 

)ost  in  the 
I  not  do 
iL"  of  her 
1  stead    of 

I'-mpress 

I  stayed 


INFANDUM   RENOVARE   DOLOREM. 


Sii 


in  my  apartment,  to  put  my  papers  in  order.  For  some  days  I  was 
certain  that  the  course  taken  was  leading  to  an  abyss,  in  which  we 
should  all  be  engulfed  :  nevertheless,  I  did  not  wish  to  have  the  least 
objert  removed  from  the  Tuileries.  In  spite  of  examples  coming 
from  above,  I  thought  it  a  more  worthy  course  to  remain  calm  and  re- 
gardless of  one's  personal  interests,  in  the  midst  of  the  storm.  So  I 
left  my  apartment  in  its  usual  state. 

"  On  the  4th  of  September,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  Garde 
Nationale  having  taken  possession  of  tiie  Palace,  I  went  to  my  daugh- 
ter's with  my  valise.  The  next  day,  the  government  not  allowing  any- 
thing to  leave  the  Tuileries,  my  proi)erty  was  secjuestrated.  So  there 
I  was  at  my  daughter's  with  only  four  shirts  and  as  many  handker- 
chiefs !  But  the  i)olitical  situation  was  so  grave  that  my  personal  losse'j 
g.'-.ve  me  but  little  thought ;  I  had  enough  of  other  cares. 

"  The  14th  of  last  October  I  went  to  Geneva  with  my  daughter,  leav- 
ing all  my  affairs  in  disorder,  but — what  was  much  more  distressing 
tome, — leaving  France  invaded  by  enemies.  From  the  time  the 
Prussians  had  first  put  their  foot  upon  our  territory.  1  had  considered 
it  a  duty  for  all  able-bodied  Frenchmen  to  take  arms.  1  asked  and 
obtained  the  command  of  a  regiment.  My  nomination  was  made  the 
2d  of  September,  die  eve  of  the  fall  of  the  Empire  ;  so  my  position 
WHS  a  difficult  one  :  should  I  take  the  command  which  had  been  con- 
fided to  me  by  the  Emperor,  or  resign  it  ?  1  went  to  see  the  Min- 
ister of  War,  who  was  one  of  my  old  comrades,  and  he  thought  that, 
in  the  state  of  public  feeling  at  that  time,  the  First  Chamberlain  would 
not  be  able  to  exercise  the  necessary  authority  over  the  Mobiles ;  so 
he  decided  to  replace  me  by  an  ofiicer  whom  I  pointed  out  to  him. 
It  was  on  this  account,  and  to  my  great  regret,  that  I  was  deprived 
of  the  satisfaction  and  die  honor  of  fighting  in  defence  of  my  country. 
At  (ieneva  I  lived  in  profound  seclusion,  entirely  outside  of  poli- 
tics, communicating  with  no  one,  and  wishing  to  meet  no  one.  Never- 
theless the  police  of  the  Republic  took  the  trouble  to  busy  the  nselves 
about  me,  and  to  i)u!)lish  me  in  the  papers  as  one  of  the  he  ds  of  a 
J^onai)artist  conspiracy.  Several  times  I  passed  twenty-four  hours  :.t 
Flecheres,  but  they  always  hesitated  about  arresting  me  ;  though  1 
was  followed  by  agents,  who  were  robbing  the  government  and  telling 
it  a  pack  of  lies. 

*'  I  believed  it  my  dut)',  as  long  as  the  Emperor  was  at  Wilh  ■  .ishOhe, 
to  go  to  him  and  place  myself  at  his  disposal.     I  crossed  the  whole 


!  i  •■  L 

1:1 


Y  ■ 


i 


.f\..^ 


•^•'*.x'*' 


512 


THE   EiVIPEROR. 


Si        ' 


of  Germany,  which  was  then  in  arms,  at  tliat  time  when  the  Prus- 
sians were  marching  upon  Paris  ;  wiiich,  to  a  French  heart,  was  a  cruel 
spectacle.  I'he  Emperor  was  very  much  moved  at  seeing  me.  J. 
passed  two  days  with  him,  relating  to  him  all  that  happened  in  his  ab- 
sence, and  telling  him  the  fruf/i  about  men  and  iliings.  The  Em- 
peror was  not  able  to  keep  me;  so  1  left  him  with  a  heavy  heart.  It 
is  useless  to  attack,  to  insult,  and  calumniate  him.  1  will  declare, 
with  my  head  on  the  scaffold,  that  he  was  the  best  of  men,  the 
mildest,  and  best-intentioned  of  the  sovereigns  of  our  times.  This  is 
the  truth  :  the  wretches  who  dishonor  the  French  press,  ambitious 
men  who  covet  i)ower,  may  insult  this  unfortunate  monarch  ;  but 
posterity  will  do  him  justice,  and  already  our  ])eople  express  loudly 
their  regrets  at  the  fall  of  a  jwwer,  which  gave  them  peace  and  [iros- 
perity. 

"  As  for  me,  my  dear  child,  arrived  at  the  end  of  my  career,  dis- 
gusted with  the  men  and  things  of  this  age,  I  intend  to  pass,  in  the 
strictest  retreat,  the  time  that  remains  for  me  to  live.  I  do  not  wish 
to  mix  again  in  anything,  no  matter  what  it  may  be ;  my  age  p'.-rinits 
me  to  repose,  and  1  desire  to  avail  myself  of  this  sad  privi';-..  , 

"  I  hope,  but  I  am  not  sure,  that  the  frightful  crimes  that  I:  v..:  dis- 
honored Paris,  will  be  followed  by  a  time  of  calm  :  there  are  so  many 
causes  of  fermentation  and  discord  in  unhappy  Fra;-.ce,  that  one  can- 
not i)redict  its  future.  If  nothing  prevents  it,  I  shall  pass  the  most 
of  my  time  at  Flecheres ;  but,  in  case  France  becomes  again  un- 
inhal)itable  for  those  who  have  held  any  position  under  the  Emijir^ 
I  shall  return  to  the  mountains  of  Iswitzerland  and  buy  a  chalet 
there. 

"  1  learned,  with  great  pleasure,  that  you  are  contented  and  do  not 
regret  in  any  v;iy  having  followed  your  fancies  ;  the  thought  that  you 
are  almost  happy  consoles  me  ''or  many  of  my  present  griefs.  We  are 
separated  by  the  ocean,  and  by  unsurmountable  difficulties,  I  do 
not  see  any  possi'nlity  of  our  ever  meeting  agr  in  in  tins  world;  it  is  a 
grief  for  me  as  well  ■^"  foi  \  ou,  f'/i  your  rei.iembrance  is  very  vivid 
to  me.  I  often  recall  J.l  i^ast,  and  it  is  always  with  pleasure  that  I 
find  the  trace  of  ,.k:  n  any  happy  hours  passed  beside  you.  Jliis 
sweet  dream  has  vanhnc  /,  ac.  ey  to  return  I 

"  I  beg  you  to  embirrs  3  mir  charming  little  girl  for  me  ;  I  shall  re- 
main for  her  a  souvenir  of  that  iuii>py  France  where  she  passed  many 
years.     May  the  dear  child  be  hai)py !  May  you  also  find  a  peaceful 


¥ 


'*«  3^'l 


r-  -i 


ANGUISH. 


513 


H  the  Priis- 
was  a  cruel 
jing  inc.     I 
l-'din  his  ab- 
The  Kin- 
[y  heart.    It 
f'ill  declare, 
)f  men,  the 
les.     Tliis  is 
h  ambitious 
HKirch  ;  but 
>ress   loudly 
e  and  pros- 
career,  dis- 
pass,  in  the 
do  not  wish 
age  p'.Tinits 
i'.'  • 

uit  i  ^^.,  .lis- 
are  so  many 
hat  one  can- 
ss  the  jnost 
s  again  un- 
he  Empir-', 
iiy  a  cAd/a 

and  do  not 
ht  that  you 
•s.  \Ve  are 
ties.  I  do 
arid;  it  is  a 
very  vivid 
sure  that  I 
•oil.     T/i/s 

I  shall  re- 
ssed  many 
a  peaceful 


life,  and  forget  the  pain  I  have  caused  you,  to  remember  only  the  few 
good  qualities  which  hide  themselves  behind  my  faults. 

"  I  send  the  most  tender  farewell,  and  the  assurance  of  an  affection 
which  will  only  terminate  with  my  life. 

"  LaferriI;re." 

As  my  eyes  ran  over  those  lines,  which  I  knew  he  intended  me  to 
consider  as  his  last  adieu,  my  courage  forsook  me, — but  not  the 
hojie  of  seeing  him  again  ;  for  love  does  not  so  easily  abandon  hope 
]>ut  my  co'irage  left  me, — the  courage  to  persevere  and  finish  the  work 
I  had  begun.  I  had  an  impulse  to  rush  back  to  New  York,  and  take 
the  next  steamer  that  sailed  for  France.  I  knew  that  he  loved  me, 
that  he  was  only  wounded  because  I  had  left  him,  and  that  I  had  only 
to  go  back  to  him,  and  throw  myself  at  his  feet,  and  all  would  be  for- 
given. There  I  was,  surrounded  by  everything  and  everybody  that 
was  most  uncongenial  tome  ;  and  Laferriere's  letter  brought  back  to 
me  all  iliat  I  had  lost ;  and  1  believed  that  I  might  regain  it  all  again, 
if  I  only  went  back  to  him. 

I  tried  to  conceal  my  anguish  from  those  around  nie.  The  more 
I  suftered,  and  the  more  my  courage  a*nd  strength  to  persevere  failed 
me,  the  more  I  outwardly  a])peared  contented,  hopeful,  and  happy. 

On  the  17th  of  July  they  raised  the  frame  of  the  church,  and 
as  the  strokes  resounded  through  the  air,  each  stroke  fell  on  my 
ears,  like  a  demon's  voice  mocking  and  deriding  me  for  my  obsti- 
nacy and  folly.  All  the  people  around  had  predicted  that  my 
nnich-talked-of  church  would  end  in  being  made  a  barn.  "  Well," 
thought  I,  "  be  it  so.  \Miat  do  I  care  whether  they  laugh  at  me  or 
not  ?  Let  them  laugh.  I  will  yAace  myself  beyond  the  reach  of  their 
deridings.  I  will  go  back  to  France,  for  I  cannot  live  any  longer 
separated  from  I^aferri^re.     I  re/// go  back  to  him." 

I  went  up  stairs,  into  a  little  room  that  I  had  fitted  up  to  remind 
me  of  that  little  bedroom  which  I  had  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin, in  the  Abba)e  aux  Hois.  The  walls  were  pale  blue,  and  on  the 
ceiling  were  stars,  and  it  was  furnished  with  light  blue  silk  and  gold. 
The  same  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  too,  was  there.  I  knelt  before 
it,  and  there  I  began  to  pray,  and  to  ask  our  T,ord  to  inspire  me  what 
to  do.  I  never  knew  a  sr.dder  hour.  I  could  hear  cheerful  and 
men-,  voices  everywhere  around  me,  but  the  heavy  strokes  of  the 
workmen's  axe  jarred  on  every  fibre  of  my  heart. 
22* 


514 


A  DAY   HAPPILY  ENDED. 


After  praying  a  few  moments,  and  fervently  imploring  our  Lord  to 
let  me  know  if  it  was  His  will  that  I  should  continue  to  build  that 
church  before  I  returned  to  France,  I  got  my  Bible,  and  kneeling 
down  again  before  the  statue,  I  said :  "  I-ord,  Thou  shalt  decide  for 
i.ie  nowy  as  Thou  didst  before ;  and  whatever  Thou  tellest  me  to  do, 
I  will  do  it." 

As  quick  as  thought,  I  opened  the  Bible — the  little  Protestant 
Bible  — at  these  words  (I.  Chron.  xxii.  11): 

"  The  Lord  be  with  thee  ;  and  prosper  thou,  and  build  the  house 
of  the  Lord  thy  (iod,  as  He  hath  said  of  thee. 

"12  Only  the  Lord  give  thee  wisdom  and  understanding,  and  give 
thee  charge  concerning  Lsrael,  that  thou  mayest  keep  the  law  of  tiie 
Lord  thy  (lod. 

"13  Then  shalt  thou  prosper,  if  thou  takcst  heed  to  fulfil  the 
statutes  and  judgments  which  the  Lord  charged  IMoses  with  concerning 
Israel :  be  strong,  and  of  good  courage  ;  dread  not,  nor  be  dis- 
mayed." 

My  soul  was  filled  with  the  sweetest  ronsolation  as  I  read  these 
lines.  1  felt  just  as  though  God  were  beside  me,  lending  me  by  the 
hand.  * 

"  Dearest  Saviour  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  I  will  do  as  you  tell  me.  I 
will  biii'd  tlie  church;  and  I  will  be  good,  and  will  never  doubt  again 
that  Tl  o  I  didst  send  me  here.  Latfirriere  can  call  it  caprice,  fancy, 
what  he  will  ;  but  I  know  n;/w  that  Thou  didst  call  me.  I  will  trust 
in  Thee,  and  I  will  ever  keep  Thv  'stau.res,'  and  I  know  that  Thou 
wilt  not  abandon  me." 

I  was  as  happy  and  joyous  the  rest  of  f'Mt  day  as  T  had  been  sad 
and  despondent  in  the  early  part  of  it.  Tl'e  'vorknien,  who  had  volun- 
teered to  come  from  far  and  near,  to  assist  the  carpenters  to  raise  the 
frame  of  the  church,  afti  r  It  was  ra;  ^ed  came  and  sat  on  the  green, 
where  I  treated  them  ic  sandwiches  and  beer,  while  Mrs.  Voice 
played  the  organ  and  saig. 

As  soon  as  they  had  left,  Mrs.  Voice,  her  father,  my  child,  and  my- 
self, went  up  to  the  church,  where  the  old  gentleman  saii!  the  rosary, 
and  the  rest  of  us  responded.  The  fiery  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were 
reflected  on  the  eastern  sky,  so  that  the  whole  country  appeared  as 
though  it  wore  canopied  by  a  radiant  dome. 

1  lefl  ;'.iem,  and  went  down  to  the  ledge  of  rocks,  which  lay  by  the 
roadside,  opposite   to  the  pond.     My  child  came   tripping  after  me, 


fur  Lord  to 

build  that 

Id  kneeling 

decide  for 

me  to  do, 

Protestant 

1  the  house 

jg,  and  give 
law  of  the 

to  fulfil  the 

concerning 

nor  be  dis- 

read  these 
g  me  by  the 

I  tell  me.  I 
doubt  aoain 
im'ce,  fant:y, 
I  will  trust 
V  that  Thou 

ad  been  sad 
3  had  volim- 
to  raise  tiie 
1  the  green, 
Mrs.   Voice 

ild,  and  my- 
th e  rosary, 
g  sun  were 
Ll)peared  as 

1  lay  by  the 
g  after  me, 


OUR   FATHER. 


and,  as  we  leaped  from  one  stone  to  the  other,  she  anxiously  inquired, 
at  every  jutn]),  if  I  would  have  a  "  steeple  to  the  church,  a  cross,  and 
a  bell."  I  rei)lied  :  "  I  will  put  on  it  everything  that  the  I^ord  will 
give  me  ;  but  before  we  ask  Him  for  a  steeple,  let  us  pray  that  He 
will  give  us  the  money  to  pay  for  the  foundation." 

*'Oh,  mamma!"  she  cried,  "  I  am  sure  that  He  will  do  that;  but 
I  think  we  ought  to  ask  for  a  steeple  too.  I  am  going  to  pray  the 
Blessed  Virgin  for  that."  As  we  leaped  from  rock  to  rock  my  heart 
was  burning  with  gratitude  to  God  for  all  His  goodness. 

I  stopped  an  instant  to  catch  breath,  and  taking  hold  of  my  child's 
hand  I  said  to  her :  "Let  us  thank  God,  my  child,  for  all  that  He  has 
done  for  us,"  "Yes,  mamma,"  she  replied,  "for  God  is  such  a  gooti 
Fatha-r 

1  was  looking  down  at  the  pond  when  the  word  "Father"  escaped 
her  lips.  A  slight  tremor  passed  over  the  water,  and  those  tiny  waves 
seemed  to  whisper  back  to  me  the  words  my  child  had  spoken,  "  God 
is  stick  a  i^ood  Father." 

1  then  recollected  the  day  and  the  hour  that  I  had  once  sat  there 
alone,  when  a  child,  without  a  home  or  a  friend,  and  when  I  saw  the 
water  move,  how  1  rushed  down  the  rocks,  and  knelt  down  by  the 
edge  of  the  pond,  and  called  on  the  spirit  of  my  dead  father  to  look 
down  from  heaven,  and  protect  his  child. 

1  then  looked  towards  the  cottage  where  the  shoemaker  lived.  He 
had  long  since  died  ;  but  his  cottage  was  still  there,  the  sight  of  which 
brought  back  a  painful  remembrance.  1  turned  away  from  it,  and 
said  to  my  child  :  "  Let  us  go  home." 

As  1  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  my  heart  bounded  with  joy  ;  for  I 
then  recollected  that  I  had,  that  very  same  day  to  which  i  allude, 
sat  by  the  roadside,  under  the  chestnut-tree,  and  coveted  that  little 
home.  1  said  to  my  child:  "  How  true  it  is,  dear  one,  that  God  is 
good,  for  He  has  given  me  everything  that  my  heart  once  desired. 
He  does  not  even  forget  the  ):)rayers  I  made  when  a  child." 

I  could  say  no  more  ;  my  soul  was  too  full  for  utterance  ;  for  there 
too  was  the  churcii  already  begun,  which  seemed  to  say  that  nothuig 
was  forgotten,  and  that  our  Lord  had  been  watching  over  me,  when 
I  stood  there,  in  years  gone  by,  and  had  thought  how  beautiful  it 
would  be  to  go  up  on  that  hill  to  worship  God  ! 

In  that  moment  I  rejoiced,  and  was  glad  that  I  had  left  France  ; 
for  I   felt  that   by  leaving  it,  1  had  made  (iod  my  Father,  and  my 


I 


m 


\ 


»:         Df, 


» ;;* 


5i6 


SUBMISSION  TO   FATE. 


Friend.  But  alas  !  for  the  inconstancy  of  the  human  heart ;  hefore 
another  day  had  g<-  e,  I  was  asking  Him  with  streaming  eyes,  how 
long  I  still  must  wait  before  I  should  see  Laferriere  again  ! 


CHAPTER  CV. 


fii 


AN   EXODUS. 

The  day  after  the  frame  of  the  church  was  raised,  Mrs.  Voice's 
father  returned  to  New  York,  and  we  were  left  under  the  protection 
of  Mike. 

He,  and  his  wife,  and  his  mother,  and  his  cousin  were  principally 
employed  in  trying  to  pacify,  to  feed,  and  to  clean  the  two  children  : 
while  I  was  constantly  prayi'iT  God  to  make  me  patient  and  re- 
signed. 

One  day  I  called  Mike  to  drive  out  a  heifer  I  saw  in  my  lot. 
"  Why,  madam,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  your  own  :  it  is  the  fine  little 
cow  that  you  bought  of  me."  "I  don't  want  any  such  looking  cow 
as  that,  and  I  will  give  you  ten  dollars,  Mike,  if  you  will  take  her 
back  ;"  to  which  Mii:e  agreed. 

As  I  never  made  aiiy  complaints,  everybody  took  me  to  be  either 
crazy  or  a  fool. 

I  was  a  mystery  to  Mrs.  Voice,  who  one  day  began  telling  me  what 
her  impressions  were,  whenever  she  chanced  to  go  into  the  kitchen. 
Said  I,  "  Do  as  I  do.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  stop  my  ears,  and  hurry 
through  it  as  quickly  as  I  can  ;  therefore  I  see  nothing,  I  hear  noth- 
ing." "Hear  nothing!"  she  exclaimed;  "why,  you  can  hear  the 
children  crying  all  over  the  place."  "  You  may,"  said  I,  "  I  do  not ;  for 
when  a  child  cries,  I  think  of  something  else,  and  won't  listen  to  it." 

In  a  little  while,  Mike  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  neither 
crazy  nor  a  fool,  but  that  I  was  afraid  to  speak,  for  fear  of  losing 
them  ;  and  hf  doubtless  said  to  himself :  "  The  woman  is  right  ;  for^ 
what  could  she  do  without  a  man  to  take  care  of  her  farm  ?  "  The 
reason  why  I  was  so  lenient  with  this  gentle  band  was,  that  I  hadi 
always  made  it  a  rule  never  to  give  an  order  unless  I  could  enforce  it,| 
and  whenever  I  gave  one,  I  would  be  obeyed,  or  I  would  discharge 
the  servant  at  once. 


PATIENCE    CEASES  TO   BE  A   VIRTUE. 


517 


One  evening  Mrs.  Voice  was  goading  me  more  tlian  ever,  trying 
to  open  my  eyes,  when  I  said  to  lier  :  "  If  I  gi^e  an  order,  I  will  make 
them  obey  me,  and  if  they  refuse  or  are  insolent,  I  will  oblige  them 
to  leave." 

"  Goodness,"  she  exclaimed,  "  let  them  go  !  for  what  do  they  do 
but  wait  on  themselves  ?  " 

The  next  morning  I  found  the  boy  Neillie  on  the  i)iazza,  where  he 
had  been  creating  a  disturbance  with  Mrs.  Voice's  child  and  maid ; 
to  avoid  a  repetition  of  the  scene,  I  took  the  gentle  Neillie  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  his  mother.  I  had  hardly  left  the  kitchen  when 
Mike  ca,me  to  me  and  said  that  he  wished  I  would  settle  with  him  at 
once  ;  that  he  did  not  care  to  stay  where  his  child  could  not  have 
the  i)rivilege  of  going  on  the  front  steps  ;  that  the  mother  would  not 
stand  it,  and  was  so  indignant  that  she  had  taken  her  hands  out  of 
♦^he  dough,  nnd  had  gone  to  a  neighbor's  to  hire  a  room. 

Saul  1  :  "Mike,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  would  leave  me 
for  such  a  trifle  as  that  ? "  Then  he  became  bold.  "  Yes,"  he 
replied,  with  earnestness,  "  we  will  all  of  us  leave,  JVfaggie  and  all ; 
and  I  would  like  to  have  you  settle  with  me  on  the  spot."  Said  I : 
"  Ivfike,  whenever  a  servant  comes  to  me,  and  tells  me  that  he  is 
going  to  leave,  I  have  but  one  rei)ly,  and  that  is  that  he  has  got  .to 
go.     So  ])ack  up  your  things." 

Mike  was  taken  aback,  and  made  no  reply.  At  that  moment  his 
wife  returned.  I  went  into  the  kitchen  and  found  her  at  work.  I 
begged  her  to  stop,  and  give  all  her  time  to  preparing  to  leave.  But 
they  had  changed  their  minds,  and  had  concluded  to  stay. 

Said  I  :  "  Mike,  you  must  leave,  because  you  told  me  you  would 
go."  He  then  coaxingly  requested  me  to  let  them  remain.  But 
tinding  that  he  could  not  move  me  by  kindness,  he  began  to  threaten, 
which  had  no  effect  on  me  either.  At  last,  drawing  himself  up  to  his 
full  height,  which  then  did  not  make  him  appear  very  fall  he  ex- 
claimed :  "  Then  we  will  settle,  and  you  will  pay  me  for  my  cow  be- 
fore I  will  leave." 

Said  I:  "I  bought  your  cow,  and  for  ten  dollars  you  agreed  to  take 
it  back,  and  1  have  given  you  time  to  go  and  sell  it  for  yourself.  The 
cow  is  yours,  not  mine."  He  swore  that  he  would  sue  me.  Said  I : 
"  You  can  sue  me,  but  that  will  not  make  me  Iniy  your,  cow." 

The  court-house  was  in  Sharon  village,  whicn  lay  about  seven  miles 
off.     I  thought  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  secure  the  nearest  lawyer 


■'f  i 


1    \ 


■,n 


518 


A   MICROCOSM   IN   A   WAGON. 


'H  ! 


u 


tv 


1! 


1 1 


to  be  had  ;  so  I  told  Mike  to  put  the  side-saddle  on  the  horse,  and  I 
started  to  consult  Lawyer  Swift,  who  lived  in  the  valley,  Mike,  sus- 
))ectnig  where  I  was  going,  took  a  short-cut  across  the  lots,  and  got 
there  before  nie,  and  secured  him  for  himself. 

As  soon  as  I  got  home,  we  had  another  pitched  battle,  Mike  all  the 
while  threatening  that  he  would  sue  me,  to  make  me  pay  him  for 
his  cow. 

The  next  morning  I  gave  them  no  peace,  and  kept  right  in  the 
midst  of  them,  urging  them  to  leave.  Mike  began  threatening  again 
to  sue  me. 

Said  I :  "  Mike,  )^ou  talk  just  as  though  you  thought  that  it  would 
annoy  me  to  go  to  court,  whereas,  I  would  love  to  go  to  court  with 
you.  It  would  be  such  a  luxurious  change,  compared  to  the  mono- 
tonous life  that  1  am  leading  on  this  hill."  About  an  hour  afterwards 
Mike  came  to  me,  as  mild  a;"l  as  meek  as  a  lamb,  and  said: 
"  Madam,  I  wou'd  i)refer  not  going  to  court,  and  I  will  settle  with 
you  for  five  dollars  dilTerence."  To  which  offer  I  agreed,  thus  anni- 
hilating all  my  prospects  of  having  the  pleasure  of  going  to  coiut. 

Mike  had  stored  his  furniture  over  the  cow-house.  In  a  few  hours 
it  was  piled  up  on  a  large  lumber-wagon,  ready  to  leave.  Tlie  clock 
struck  two;  and  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out :  "Well,  we  are  all  ready 
now  :  let's  go." 

At  that  happy  cry  I  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  sat  down  on  the 
piazza,  to  view  the  parting  train,  taking  for  subject  of  my  meditation 
the  Exodus  of  the  Israelites ;  and  I  wondered  if  there  ever  was  a 
widow,  throughout  all  Kgypt,  who  needed  the  services  of  a  Jew  as 
much  as  I  did  Mike's,  and  yet  was  as  glad  as  I  was  to  see  him  go.  I 
concluded  that,  in  my  joys  as  well  as  my  sorrows,  I  was  destined  ever 
to  be  alone,  singled  out  by  Providence  as  an  exception  to  woman- 
kind ;  and  my  heart  bounded  with  delight  at  the  strange  sight  of 
a  wagon-load  of  furniture,  with  a  kettle  lianging  down  from  the  axle- 
tree  behind,  with  Mike,  his  wife,  the  tender  Neillie,  the  baby,  the 
cousin,  and  the  grandmother,  all  driving  out  of  sight,  and  leaving 
me  utterly  \ythout  "help."  A  man  soon  afterwards  came  and  drove 
away  the  cow,  and  then  might  have  been  heard  a  squealing,  down 
towards  the  barn ;  it  was  Mike's  pig,  the  only  living  thing  which 
still  remained  .to  remind  me  of  w/iai  had  been  I 


In  a  fev 
a  boy  aboi 
Septem 
school. 

One  nil 

ther  Tant 

frightene( 

his  teeth, 

could  do 

age  the  s 

injured ; 

sto\)ped. 

dogs  spi 

caught  I 

1  had 

fore  I  h 

dogs,  iv 

nal  po\ 

1  ha( 

as  pro 

league- 

been  n 

a  hors 

I'athe! 

wante 

to  his 

refuse 

I  1 

done 

objec 

bisho 

At 

that 


•i 


A  CHAPTER   OF  ACCIDENTS. 


519 


fiorse,  and  I 
Mike,  SUS- 
P's, and  got 


^likc  all  tlie 
Ipay  hini  for 

right  in  the 
|ening  again 

lat  it  would 

court  with 

the  mono- 

r  afterwards 

and    said  : 

si-'ttk;  with 

)  thus  anni- 

|tO  Cf)tut. 

a  lew  hours 

'I'he  clock 

ire  all  ready 

lown  on  the 
'  nieditation 
ever  was  a 
of  a  ](ivf  as 

him  go.     I 
-vstined  ever 

to  wonian- 
?e  sight  of 
I"  the  axlc- 
'  haby,  the 
nd  leaving 

and  drove 
ling,  down 
ij"g  which 


CHAPTER   CVI. 


FATHKR  Tandy's  stop 


In  a  few  days  after  Mike  left,  I  succeeded  in  getting  two  girls,  and 
a  boy  about  foiu'teen  years  old,  to  do  my  work. 

Sei)tember  had  come,  and  it  was  time  to  take  my  child  back  to 
school. 

One  morning  I  started  off  very  early,  on  horseback,  to  call  on  Fa- 
ther Tandy.  I  was  almost  there,  when  a  terrible  hail-storm  set  in,  which 
frightened  my  horse  ;  and  he  ran  away.  He  clinched  the  bit  between 
his  teeth,  so  that  1  had  no  control  over  him,  and  it  was  all  that  I 
could  do  to  keep  on  his  back.  Just  as  I  got  in  sight  of  the  j^arson- 
age  the  saddle  turned,  and  I  was  thrown  to  the  ground  without  being 
injured ;  for  as  the  saddle  turned  on  his  back,  the  horse  instantly 
stopped.  I  had  hardly  time  to  oi)en  the  gate  before  two  tremendous 
dogs  sprang  towards  me,  and  when  I  got  into  the  yard  one  of  them 
caught  me  by  the  heel. 

I  had  had  a  narrow  escape  in  being  thrown  from  my  horse  ;  and  be- 
fore I  had  yet  recovered  from  the  shock,  to  be  attacked  by  two  fierce 
dogs,  in  a  hail-storm,  made  me  feel  for  a  moment  as  though  the  infer- 
nal i)owers  had  been  let  loose  upon  me. 

I  had  no  sooner  got  into  the  house  than  I  looked  on  my  accidents 
as  providential,  as  though  the  elements  and  the  brute  creation  had 
leagued  together  to  forward  my  designs.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  fortunate  for  me  than  to  be  caught  there  in  a  storm,  with 
a  horse  that  had  just  run  away  with  me.  I  felt  that  it  insured  me  the 
Father's  hosi)itality  for  a  few  hours  at  least ;  and  that  was  just  what  I 
wanted.  I  did  not  want  him  to  suspect  the  motive  that  brought  me 
to  his  house  that  morning,  lest  he  might  be  on  his  guard,  and  might 
refuse  my  recjuest. 

I  knew  that  he  was  going  to  New  York  in  a  day  or  two.  I  had 
done  everything  in  my  power  to  gain  Father  Tandy's  good-will,  my 
object  being  to  try  and  get  him  to  speak  a  good  word  for  me  to  Arch- 
bishop ISfcCloskey. 

At  first  he  was  on  his  guard  ;  but  on  further  acquaintance  1  think 
that  he  began  to  consider  me    as   a   simple,  good,  honest-hearted' 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREIT 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


520 


AT  FATHER  TANDY'S. 


woman,  who  had  little  or  no  sense,  and  that  there  was  no  danger  of 
my  doing  any  harm,  as  I  was  going  to  deed  the  church  to  the  Bishop 
of  Hartford,  on  condition  that  Father  Tandy  should  take  charge  of  it. 

On  a  better  acquaintance  with  him,  I  concluded  that  I  would  rather 
not  be  subjected  to  him  ;  I  merely  wanted  his  influence,  because  I 
knew  it  was  necessary  in  order  to  go  on  with  my  work. 

As  I  had  an  idea  that  Imperial  reverses  would  yet  force  Laferri^re 
to  seek  a  home  on  this  side  of  the  ocean,  I  was  determined  to  be 
prepared  for  such  an  emergency ;  and  in  diat  case  I  should  want 
to  occupy  the  place  myself  as  a  country-seat.  I  knew  well  that,  if 
Father  Tandy  was  once  in  possession  of  the  edifice,  he  would  have 
Mass  only  when  it  suited  himself,  and  that  if  1  attempted  to  interfere 
he  would  lock  up  the  church,  put  the  keys  in  his  pocket,  and  perhaps 
threaten  me  with  the  thunders  of  the  church,  if  I  dared  to  murmur 
against  his  arbitrary  rule. 

To  return  to  my  morning  call,  when  the  very  elements'  themselves 
seemed  to  favor  my  designs  on  this  unsuspecting  priest : — in  spite  of 
my  endeavors  to  arrive  before  he  had  breakfasted,  his  housekeeper, 
who  came  to  the  door,  said  that  he  had  already  breakfasted,  and  had 
gone  out. 

On  his  return  I  related  to  him  my  aoventures,  and  wound  up  my 
story  by  asking  him  if  he  would  please  to  tell  me  at  once  at  what  hour 
Mass  was  to  be  in  Dover  on  Sunday  ;  for  I  ought  to  hurry  home  so 
as  to  get  my  breakfast.  He  instantly  left  me  ;  but  returned  in  a 
few  moments,  and  said  that  it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  ride  back 
on  that  horse  ;  he  had  ordered  breakfast  for  me,  and  would  drive  me 
home,  as  soon  as  it  cleared  ofif. 

I  soon  began  to  put  on  little  womanly  airs,  and  talk  just  as  though 
I  felt  myself  in  his  way,  and  appeared  to  be  annoyed  at  the  contre- 
temps that  forced  me  to  stay.  I  begged  him  not  to  let  my  presence 
interfere  with  anything  that  he  had  to  do.  I  sat  down  by  the  window. 
Said  he  :  "  1  am  very  glad  that  you  are  here,  for  I  have  nothing  to 
do ;  "  and  he  came  up  to  the  window.  Then  I  rose,  and  we  both 
looked  out.  We  saw  a  funeral,  which  was  the  only  lively  thing 
stirring  in  that  inactive  little  place.  Neither  of  us  seemed  to  have 
anything  to  say ;  but  I  would  occasionally  make  such  remarks  as 
these:  •'  How  nice  it  will  be,  when  I  get  my  church  finished,  to  have 
Mass  over  there,  and  have  Mrs.  Voice  sing."  "Hut  I  should  think 
that  a  man  of  your  ability  would  die,  put  up  in  a  place  liiie  this." 


ENMESHING  THE  LION. 


521 


[o  danger  of 
the  I3ishop 
J  charge  of  it. 
Iwoukl  rather 
|e,  because  I 

\e  Laferrifire 

mined  to  be 

I  should  want 

|well  that,  if 

would  have 

to  interfere 

and  perhaps 

to  niurnnir 

themselves 
—in  spite  of 
ousekeeper, 
ed,  and  had 

3und  up  my 
at  what  hour 
rry  home  so 
turned  in  a 
to  ride  back 
Id  drive  me 

it  as  though 
the  contre- 
ly  presence 
he  window, 
nothing  to 
id  we  both 
ively  thing 
Jd  to  have 
emarks  as 
-d,  to  have 
tnild  think 
;  this." 


That  made  him  sigh  ;  and  he  pointed  toward  a  picture  that  hung 
on  the  wall,  which  rej^resented  St.  Joseph's  Seminary,  at  Troy,  where 
he  had  once  lived  and  labored,  and  he  threw  upon  it  a  long  and  wist- 
ful glance.  Here  I  felt  a  true  sympathy  for  him,  and,  for  an  instant,  I 
thought  that  I  would  like  to  have  him  join  me  in  my  work,  as  it  would 
give  him  something  more  to  do. 

But  reason  soon  returned ;  for  I  knew  that  he  would  be  the 
stronger  of  the  two,  and  that  I  would  have  to  disappear. 

My  breakfast  was  served  up  in  the  library,  where  we  were.  I  then 
left  the  window,  and  sat  down  to  my  meal ;  and  we  began  to  talk. 

Four  hours  passed  ;  and  the  whole  time  was  consumed  in  talking, 
but  saying  nothing.  I  appeared  all  the  while  to  be  searching  to  find 
something  to  say  ;  but  at  last  the  conversation  came  to  a  dead  pause, 
and  Father  Tandy  went  to  the  window,  and  remarked  th.at  it  rained 
harder  than  ever,  and  that  there  was  no  sign  of  it  clearing  olif. 

He  resumed  his  seat  again,  which  was  '"ight  opposite  mine,  and  he 
asked  me  if  I  would  not  give  him  a  history  of  my  conversion.  I  was 
delighted  at  the  c.iance  and  instantly  complied,  making  my  story  as 
pathetic  and  as  interesting  as  I  could.  When  I  came  to  that  part 
where  I  left  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life,  and  immured  myself,  and  had 
remained,  as  it  were,  cloistered  for  several  months,  he  remarked  : 
"  That  is  wonderful  for  a  woman  like  yourself.  It  required  a  tre- 
mendous will  to  do  that.  I  never  would  have  believed  that  you  were 
capable  of  it ; "  and  he  began  to  scrutinize  me  closely,  while  I  as- 
sumed an  expression  which  was  quite  "  childlike  and  bland." 

Said  he  :  "-^  Did  you  hai'e  an  object?"  Thought  I,  to  myself:  "  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  you  if  I  had."  Returning  his  gaze  with  an 
inquiring  look,  I  replied  :  "  What  object.  Father?"  He  did  not  like 
to  tell  me  what  he  thought.  He  passed  it  off,  and  told  me  to  pro- 
ceed. As  soon  as  my  story  was  ended,  he  remarked  :  "  After  lead- 
ing such  a  life,  you  will  never  be  content  to  settle  down  here." 
"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  if  I  only  had  a  little  church,  I  think  I  could  stay 
here  and  be  happy ; "  and  I  began  to  tell  him  my  troubles.  One 
was,  that  I  was  going  to  New  York,  and  was  going  to  try  to  raise 
money  to  pay  for  what  I  had  already  contracted  for,  but  that  it  would 
be  difficult  without  His  Grace's  consent. 

Said  he  :  "  Why  do  you  not  go  to  him  and  ask  it  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  he  would  not  pay  any  attention  to  me.  You  will 
not  promise  to  take  charge  of  the  little  church,  and  1  do.  not  believe 


!    1; 


522 


HE  TELLS  A   STORY. 


that  he  would  care  to  have  me  continue  it,  for  fear  that  I  would  inter- 
fere with  you.  If  you  would  only  go  and  say  a  word  for  me  your- 
self, it  would  all  be  right ;  but  you  would  not  like  to  do  that,  would 
)ou  ?"  "Certainly,  I  will,"  he  answered.  "  I  will  go  and  see  the 
arclibisho)),  and  I  am  sure  that,  after  I  have  seen  him,  you  will  have 
no  trouble."  I  thanked  him  with  all  my  heart.  I  then  wanted  to  go, 
and  intimated  that  it  was  of  no  use  for  me  to  wait  any  longer  for 
the  weather  to  clear  off. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,"  said  he  ;  "I  will  see  that  you  get  home 
before  dark." 

He  was  in  no  hurry  to  have  me  go,  and  3eeined  to  think  that  it 
was  his  turn  to  talk  ;  and  he  began  to  tell  me  a  story,  to  which  at  first 
I  did  not  listen,  for  I  was  so  overjoyed  with  my  good  luck,  that  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else. 

He  noticed  my  inattention,  and  appeared  displeased ;  for  he 
bluntly  remarked  that  I  was  not  as  good  a  listener  as  himself. 

At  that  just  reproach  I  sat  still,  and  I  listened  to  him  more  atten- 
tively than  I  e  /er  listened  to  any  man  before.  The  instant  that  I 
paid  attention,  I  saw  that  his  story  was  intended  for  my  instruction. 
I  could  see  it  in  his  face  ;  for  he  looked  at  me  as  though  he  wished 
his  every  word  would  pierce  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones,  that  I 
might  profit  by  another  widow's  sad  experience,  and  never  fall  out 
with  my  parish  priest.  The  moment  that  I  seized  the  run  of  his 
theme,  it  filled  me  so  with  laughter  that  my  whole  body  ached ;  for  I 
did  not  dare  to  smile,  but  sat  before  nim,  looking  vaguely,  as  though 
I  little  comprehended  what  h"-  found  in  that  story  that  could  interest 
him,  or  that  could  interest  me.  By  my  gross  inattention,  I  lost 
much  of  the  first  part,  but  I  am  sure  of  the  last,  and  can  remember 
here  and  there  an  outline  of  the  first,  just  enough  to  give  the  reader 
an  idea  of  the  whole  plot.  It  was  the  thrilling  story  of  a  widow,  who, 
once  upon  a  time,  determined  to  build  a  church,  and  her  first  step 
towards  the  execution  of  her  plans,  was  to  quarrel  with  tlie  jjarish 
priest,  who  declared  that  the  remains  of  this  widow's  deceased  hus- 
band— he  not  having  died  in  a  canonical  way — had  no  right  to  repose 
beneath  the  altar  of  a  Roman  Catholic  church,  in  which  spot  his 
widow  was  resolved  to  place  them. 

The  priest  first  requested  her  not  to  leave  them  there  ;  but  she  re- 
fused to  comply  with  the  request.  He  then  forbade  it.  and  she  told 
him  that  sh?  would  do  as  she  pleased.     He  gave  her  then  to  under- 


THE  MORAL  OF  THE  STORY. 


523 


stand  that  he  could  not  prevent  her  building  a  church,  or  placing  her 
husband's  body  wherever  she  chose  ;  but  that  he  could  prevent  Mass 
ever  being  said  there.  She  laughed  at  his  pretensions,  and  went  to 
work,  disdaining  the  advice  and  warning  of  a  simple  parish  priest. 

In  a  short  while  she  succeeded  in  erecting  a  beautiful  little 
church.  When  it  was  completed,  she  called  on  the  priest,  and  re- 
quested him  to  say  Mass,  which  he  refused  to  do.  She  begged  him 
and  implored  him,  but  he  was  inexorable.  She  went  to  the  Arch- 
bishop, who  refused  to  interfere  with  his  priest.  She  went  to  other 
priests,  who  would  have  willingly  complied,  but  they  could  not  grant 
her  request  without  the  consent  of  the  parish  priest.  She  applied  to 
him  for  that  permission,  which  he  pertinaciously  declined  to  give  ; 
and  so  it  continued,  and  it  was  ten  years  before  she  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining her  request.     "  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

I  made  no  reply,  pretending  not  to  have  seen  the  point ;  but  I 
felt  very  much  like  telling  him  that,  if  1  had  been  there,  I  could 
have  taught  that  widow  better. 

Father  Tandy  did  not  appear  satisfied  when  he  saw  that  I  did  not 
api)ly  the  important  part  to  myself,  and  that  perhaps  his  story  had 
not  had  the  desired  effect.  He  fell  to  commenting  upon  it,  and  said 
that,  if  this  woman  had  been  smart,  she  would  have  kept  on  good 
terms  with  her  parish  priest,  and  then  everything  would  have  gone  on 
well. 

Said  I  :  "  Perhaps  she  did  not  like  him."  He  answered  :  "  That 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  she  should  have  studied  her  interest,  so  as 
to  have  saved  herself  all  that  trouble."  "Trouble!"  said  I,  "who 
cares  for  the  trouble  ?  If  I  did  not  like  a  priest,  I  would  not  be 
domineered  over  by  him  ;  but  if  I  liked  him,  I  would  do  everything  1 
could  to  please  him." 

Said  he  :  "  You  mean  to  deed  your  chapel,  after.it  is  finished,  to 
the  Church,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  I.  He  continued  :  "  And  so  did  she.  But 
it  made  no  difierence  :  she  could  do  nothing  without  the  consent  of 
her  parish  priest ; "  and  he  kept  repeating  it  over  until  he  was  tired. 
He  then  left  me,  to  order  the  horses. 

I  thought  to  myself,  as  soon  as  he  left  the  room,  how  much  I 
had  heard  people  rant  about  wily  priests ;  but  I  did  not  consider  the 
craftiest  of  them  a  match  for  the  most  stupid  widow. 

As  soon  as  he  returned,  I  wanted  to  remark  :  "  But,  Father,  yoil 


i 


524 


IT  FAILS  TO   CONVERT  ME. 


know  that  I  am  out  of  your  parish  ;  therefore  this  widow's  case 
and  my  own  are  not  parallel."  But  I  did  not  say  it,  thinking  that  it 
would  be  wiser  to  let  him  speak  a  good  word  for  me  to  His  Grace, 
before  I  should  let  him  see  that  the  widow  to  whom  he  had  just  given 
an  instruction,  did  not  forget  that  she  was  building  her  church  across 
the  State  line. 

Father  Tandy  drove  me  home,  and  we  were  followed  by  his  servant 
John,  who  rode  my  horse,  and  the  two  big  dogs,  the  smaller  of  which 
Father  Tandy  offered  to  give  me.  He  praised  the  dog's  vigilance, 
o*"  which  I  was  easily  convinced,  as  I  still  felt  the  prints  of  his  teeth 
in  my  heel. 

That  night,  after  I  retired,  I  began  reflecting  over  my  good  luck, 
while  my  child,  who  lay  beside  me,  was  condoling  with  me  for  having 
been  caught  out  in  the  rain,  thrown  by  the  horse,  and  bitten  by  the 
dog.  I  was  so  absorbed  in  thought,  that  I  would  answer  her  Yes, 
and  No,  without  listening  to  what  she  said,  liut  as  my  bad  luck 
would  have  it,  I  happened  to  say  Yes,  when  I  should  have  said  No ; 
at  which  she  instantly  sprang  up,  exclaiming :  "  Do  get  up,  mamma, 
strike  a  light  and  show  me."  ' 

"  Show  you  what,  child  ?  "  said  T.  "  Why,  where  the  horse  kicked 
you."  "  The  horse  did  not  kick  me,"  I  replied.  "  Then,  mamma, 
what  made  you  say  he  did,  when  I  asked  you?"  I  began  laughing, 
and  she  wanted  to  know  what  there  was  to  make  me  laugh.  Said  1 : 
"  Don't  ask  me  any  more  questions,  child,  for  1  can  only  think  of 
Father  Tand)'*s  story."  "  Oh,  mamma,"  she  cried,  "you  must  tell  it 
to  me."  Said  I :  "  Not  now,  for  you  will  find  it  stupid  ;  but  it  will 
amuse  you  when  you  are  older."  "  No,  no,  mamma,  you  must  tell 
it  to  me  now,  I  know  it  will  make  me  laugh."  I  began  to  tell  the 
story  ;  but  before  I  had  finished  it,  the  child  was  sound  asleep  ; 
and  never  since  .has  she  asked  me  to  tell  her  Father  Tandy's  story. 


CHAPTER  CVn. 


ENCOURAGEMENT     AND     DESPONDENCV :    THE     BIBLE     BIDS    MK    "NOT 

TO    FEAR." 


On  the   3d  of  September  I  returned  to  New  York  and  put  up  at 
the  Westminster  Hotel.     Father  Mer-ick,  a  ho  was  now  my  director, 


?1. 


I   VISIT  THE  ARCHBISHOP. 


525 


*  'U 


MK    "  NOT 


was  amused  and  not  a  little  surprised  at  my  account  of  Father  Tandy's 
promise  to  see  the  Archbishop,  to  say  a  good  word  for  me.  The 
Father  burst  out  laughing  and  exclaimed  :  "  Poor  Father  Tandy,  how 
could  he  withstand  two  such  widows  !  "  AVhen  I  related  what  a  change 
came  over  the  good  pastor,  the  moment  he  stood  on  the  spot  where 
tlie  foundation  of  the  church  was  laid,  Father  Merrick  was  struck  with 
what  I  said,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Perhaps  God  inspired  Father  Tandy 
to  say  those  words." 

I  went  to  the  Archbishop,  taking  with  me  the  letter  which  His 
(Jrace  had  written  from  Rome  in  answer  to  M.  de  Corcelles'  letter 
concerning  my  proposed  church. 

After  passing  the  usual  compliments.  His  Grace  stopped  short, 
and  waited  for  me  to  speak.  That  embarrassed  me,  for  I  expected 
that  he  would  speak  first,  and  I  had  prepared  myself  to  be  on  the 
defensive.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  pause.  I  apolo- 
gized for  my  awkwardness,  saying  :  "  I  am  not  accustomed  to  speak 
to  Archbishops,  and  I  should  only  blunder  if  I  tried  to  address  you 
by  your  proper  titles.  Permit  me  to  call  you  Father,  and  then  I  can 
put  my  whole  mind  on  what  I  came  to  see  you  about,"  His  Grace 
smiled,  nodded  an  assent,  and  said  he  should  be  pleased  to  hear  me 
call  him  Father. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  you  know  what  I  came  for  ?  "  "  Yes,"  he 
replied,  "  but  your  business  does  not  concern  me  ;  for  you  have  built 
your  church  out  of  my  diocese." 

*'  That  is  the  difficulty  that  I  want  you  to  get  me  out  of ;  for  I  am 
determined  you  shall  be  my  Bishop,  and  I  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  Bishop  of  Hartford.  I  could  never  raise  money  to  build  my 
church  if  it  were  known  that  it  is  out  of  your  diocese." 

I  then  showed  him  my  list  of  subscribers,  and  told  him  that  every- 
body I  knew  lived  in  New  York  State.  Said  he  :  "  I  cannot  change 
the  boundaries  of  the  dioceses."  *'  I  can,"  I  replied ;  "  for  I  can 
prove  that  the  New  York  diocese  is  a  little  too  small,  and  that  the 
one  in  Connecticut  is  a  little  too  large,  and  we  will  take  that  piece 
from  Connecticut  and  add  it  to  New  York.  If  your  Grace  will  be 
kind  enough  to  draw  u^j  a  jxaper  to  that  effect  and  have  it  signed  by 
yourself  and  the  Bishop  of  Connecticut,  I  will  send  it  to  Rome, 
where  I  have  friends  who  will  see  that  it  is  inniiediately  sanctioned." 
His  Grace  shook  his  head  at  this  proposition,  and  said  :  "  No,  no  ; 
we  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind  :  such  a  transaction  would  require  a 


'.I 


526 


HIS   GRACE   IS   GkACIOUS. 


special  meeting  of  the  Bishops,  and  there  is  no  necessity  for  all  that 
trouble." 

"  W-'.l  you  accept  the  jurisdiction  of  my  church,"  said  I,  "  if  the 
Bishop  of  Hartford  will  cede  it  to  you  ?  "  "  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  Father 
Tandy  was  here  yesterday :  he  told  me  that  the  church  is  being  built 
on  a  beautiful  site,  and  he  says  that  he  is  willing  to  take  charge  of  it, 
I  will  see  the  Bishop  of  Hartford  in  a  few  days,  and,  if  he  is  willing 
1  will  accept  it,  and  will  write  to  you.  I  apprehend  no  difficulty." 
1  thanked  His  Grace,  but  I  could  see  that  his  mind  had  been  already 
made  up  before  I  came,  and  that  Father  Tandy  had  paved  the  way 
for  me. 

r  excused  myself  for  not  having  called  on  him  before.  "  It  was 
very  wise  of  you,"  said  he,  "  to  keej)  away  ;  for  I  should  have  had  to 
put  a  stop  to  the  whole  thing :  it  is  a  courtesy  that  one  Bishop  always 
extends  to  another,  never  to  build  a  church  on  the  very  border  of  his 
diocese,  in  order  not  to  interfere  with  the  adjoining  parishes. 

"  That  is  what  I  feared,"  said  I,  "  and  therefore  I  k>^j)t  away  from 
you,  and  I  have  been  living  in  constant  dread  of  receiving  a  line  from 
you  asking  me  to  explain."  "  1  never  heard  anything  about  your 
work,"  said  His  (Irace,  "  until  a  week  ago,  when  I  heard  at  Manhattan- 
ville,  from  Mother  Hardey,  that  you  were  building  a  church.  I  could 
not  believe  it,  as  I  had  not  heard  a  word  about  it ;  and  I  assured  her 
that  she  must  have  been  misinfoimed.  She  insisted,  however,  that 
there  was  one  building  ;  but  it  was  only  when  Father  Tandy  told  me 
that  he  had  seen  it,  that  I  could  believe  it."  "  What  must  I  do  ?  "  said 
I.  "  You  must  go  ahead,"  replied  the  Archbishop.  "But  I  have  no 
more  money,"  said  I ;"  may  I  beg  in  your  diocese?"  He  replied: 
"  (Jo  ahead." 

We  then  exchanged  a  few  words  in  regard  to  M.  de  Corcelles' 
election  to  the  National  Assembly,  and  he  himself  referred  to  the  letter 
that  he  had  written  to  M.  de  Corcelles  from  Rome.  "Here  it  is," 
said  I,  pulling  the  letter  out  of  my  pocket ;  "  I  was  afraid  that  you 
might  forget  that  you  had  promised  to  assist  me,  and  therefore  I  kept 
the  letter."  "I  don't  think,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "that  I  promised 
to  assist  you.  I  told  you,  on  the  contrary,  that  there  was  no  need  of 
a  church."  "  I  know  you  did,"  I  replied,  "  but  here  you  add  that  it  is 
unnecessary  to  say  that,  when  the  needs  become  more  pres:jing,  you 
will  take  great  pleasure  in  doing  all  that  you  can  to  asiist  me." 

His  Grace  appeared  thoughtful  for  a  second,  and  tjhen  gave  me  a 


SUCCESS. 


527 


look  that  made  me  aware  that  he  understood  fully  my  diplomacy, 
and  was  not  a  little  amused  by  it.  We  both  smiled  as  I  rose  to  leave. 
He  accompanied  me  to  the  door,  gave  me  his  blessing,  bade  me  good- 
by,  and  told  me  again  to  "go  ahead"." 

I  ran  down  the  steps  as  happy  as  a  child;  for  those  words,  "go 
'ahead,"  coming  from  His  (irace's  lips,  rung  in  my  ears  like  the  signal 
of  success.  I  went  from  his  house  to  St.  Xavier's  chapel.  There  I 
remained  over  an  hour,  offering  up  my  thanks  to  God,  and  blessing 
Father  Tandy  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  for  I  felt  that  he  was  a 
noble  soul  and  a  true  friend,  I  was  then  fully  resigned  to  submit  to 
his  direction,  and  was  ashamed  of  myself  for  the  part  I  had  tried  to 
make  him  play ;  for  I  felt  that,  after  all,  it  would  be  better  to  be -ruled 
by  such  a  man  as  him,  than  to  be  with  many  others  who  might  let  me 
have  my  own  way.  1  asked  God  to  forgive  me  for  my  want  of  sin- 
cerity towards  such  a  good  man,  and  I  firmly  resolved  that  Father 
Tandy  should  take  charge  of  my  little  church. 

The  last  of  September  1  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Voice,  saying 
that  the  carpenter  had  just  finished  his  contract,  and  expected  that  I 
would  come  and  give  him  my  note  payable  in  three  months.  I  ex- 
pected to  remain  during  the  winter  in  the  country,  supposing,  of  course, 
that  Mrs.  Voice  would  stay  with  me.  But  as  soon  as  I  returned,  I 
discovered  tlp,t,  during  my  absence.  Father  Tandy  had  disgusted 
Mrs.  Voice  with  the  prospect  of  a  winter's  residence  in  my  mountain 
home.  The  fact  was,  he  wanted  her  to  sing  in  his  church ;  and  I  felt 
that  taking  Mrs.  Voice  from  me  would  fully  counterbalance  all  that 
he  had  done  in  my  favtr  with  the  Archbishop.  The  morning  after  I 
returned  to  New  York  I  received  the  following  line  from  His  Grace 
the  Archbishop  of  New  York  : 

"Archbishop  McCloskey  presents  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Eckel, 
and  begs  to  say  that  he  has  just  received  a  letter  from  the  Bishop  of 
Hartford  granting  all  the  permissions  and  privileges  asked  for. 

"New  York,  September  2%th,  1871." 

1  then  went  among  Catholic  gentlemen  and  tried  to  beg.  But  no 
one  would  give  me  anything,  and  many  sus[)ected  me,  seeing  so  many 
Protestant  names  on  my  list.  I  referred  them  to  the  Archbishop  ; 
but  they  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  go  to  see  him.  Not  knowing 
what  to  do,  I  called  on  His  Grace  myself,  who  received  me  very  kindly. 
I  told  him  how  others  doubted  me,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  give 


I 


528 


BEGGING. 


me  a  line  by  which  I  coukl  show  that  I  was  not  an  impostor.  He 
replied :  '*  I  will  sign  your  subscription  list  and  give  you  a  hundred 
dollars ; " — which  he  did  on  the  spot.  During  this  interview  I  felt 
sure  that  1  divined  the  opinion  which  His  Grace  had  of  nie  :  he 
believed  nie  to  be  sincere  and  in  earnest ;  but  he  also  believed  that 
I  had  more  energy  and  zeal  than  discretion,  connnon  sense,  or  real 
piety.  My  opinion  of  His  Grace  was  that  he  was  a  very  holy  man,  and 
one  that  was  extremely  cautious  and  far-seeing ;  but  Faith  and 
Hope  held  the  reins  over  Caution  to  such  an  extent,  that,  although 
his  ])rudence  often  prevented  him  from  starting  a  work,  yet  his  Faith 
and  Hope  would  never  i)ermit  him  to  sto})  one. 

Having  the  Archbishop's  signature  on  my  list  I  thought  that  all  my 
trouble  was  over.  I  first  called  on  Mr.  Richard  K  Connolly,  who, 
the  instant  he  saw  His  Grace's  name,  gave  me  a  lumdred  dollars.  The 
next  day  1  called  on  Mr.  ''Golden  Calf."  Mr.  "Calf"  treated  ine 
like  a  dog,  and  scolded  me  for  even  coming  to  him.  I  listened  to 
hinv,  but  refused  to  go  unless  he  looked  at  my  list,  thinking  that  His 
Cirace's  name  would  influence  him  to  give  me  something.  The  mo- 
ment he  ran  his  eyes  over  it,  he  exclaimed  :  "  I  declare,  here  is  the 
Archbishop's  name  !  He  is  alway  giving  where  he  has  no  business 
to.  I  have  been  caught  by  several  impostors  through  seeing  hii 
name  on  their  lists.  His  Grace  is  too  good  ;  he  is  too^easily  imposed 
upon ; "  and  he  handed  me  back  the  list,  us  liiough  the  Archbishop's 
name  alone  was  enough  to  damn  it.  - 

I  was  dreadfully  disappointed,  for  I  knew  that  I  was  speaking  to 
one  of  the  wealthiest  Catholics  in  New  York ;  and  if  he  treated  me 
so,  what  could  I  expect  from  the  rest?  Instead  of  feeling  indignant 
and  outraged  by  Mr.  "Calfs"  manner  and  speech,  I  felt  that  I  might 
iust  as  well  get  used  to  such  treatment  first  as  last,  if  I  intended  to 
persevere. 

I  begged  him  so  hard,  that,  to  get  rid  of  me,  he  gave  me  ten  dol- 
lars. I  then  called  upon  several  other  influential  and  wealthy 
Catholics.  They  received  me  more  gently  than  Mr.  "  Calf"  did,  but 
gave  me  nothing.  This  went  on  for  a  whole  week  ;  when  one  evening  I 
returned  to  the  hotel  more  discouraged  than  I  had  ever  been  before. 
I  had  exhausted  my  list  of  Catholic  names,  of  whom  I  had  hardly  been 
able  to  collect  a  cent.  I  fell  to  weeping,  and  I  said  to  our  Lord,  "  I 
do  not  wish  to  give  up,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  "  and  I  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  buried  my  face  in  my  hands  and  wept  like  a  child. 


NEW   STRENGTH. 


529 


3tor.  He 
hiimlrcd 
''lew  I  folt 
If  me  :  he 
jieved  that 
jse,  or  real 
r  man,  and 
(I'aitli  and 

although 
[t  liis  Faith 

hat  all  my 
loliy,  who, 
lars.    The 
reated  me 
istened  to 
g  that  His 
'l"hc  mo- 
>ere  is  the 
o  business 
seeing  his 
ly  imposed 
chbishop's 

leaking  to 
reated  me 
indignant 
xt  1  might 
tended  to 

ten  dol- 

wealthy 
'  did,  but 
evening  I 
11  before, 
•dly  been 
[.ord,  "  I 
1  on  the 


I  implored  God  to  speak  to  me,  and  to  tell  me  if  He  had  aban- 
doned me  or  not ;  and  I  implored  Him,  if  He  had  no:  abandoned  me, 
to  inspire  me  what  to  do,  and  to  let  me  know  if  I  should  continue  as 
I  was,  blindly  trusting  in  Him. 

I  got  ui)  from  the  Hoor  to  get  my  Bible,  and  a  fresh  gush  of  tears 
streamed  from  my  eyes  at  the  thought  of  being  there  all  alone  with- 
out friends,  and  surrounded  by  unknown  enemies,  who  were  doing 
all  they  could  to  injure  me  in  the  mind  of  the  only  friend  I  had ;  and 
that  friend  too  was  a  priest  and  a  Jesuit ;  and  how  long  could  I 
de|)end  upon  him  ? 

I  opened  the  Hible  and  dashed  away  the  tears  that  blinded  me. 
My  eyes  fell  on  these  words  (Is.  xli.) : — 

"  10.  Fear  thou  not;  for  I  am  with  thee:  be  not  dismayed  ;  for  I 
am  thy  (iod  :  I  will  strengthen  thee  ;  yea,  I  will  help  thee ;  yea,  I  will 
uphold  thee  with  the  right  hand  of  my  righteousness. 

"ii.  Ikhold,  all  they  that  were  incensed  against  thee  shall  be 
ashamed  and  confounded  :  they  shall  be  as  nothing ;  and  they  that 
strive  with  thee  shall  perish. 

"12.  Thou  shalt  seek  them,  and  shalt  not  find  them,  even  them 
that  contended  with  thee  :  they  that  war  against  thee  shall  be  a-* 
nothing,  and  as  a  thing  of  naught. 

"  13.  For  I  the  Lord  thy  God  will  hold  thy  right  hand,  saying 
unto  thee.   Fear  not,  I  will  help  thee." 

I  read  nnd  I  re-read  those  four  verses,  until  my  sorrow  was  turned 
into  gladness  ;  and  much  as  I  wept  an  instant  before  from  desolation 
and  despair,  I  now  wept  as  freely  from  joy.  I  wondered  how  I  could 
have  ever  doubted,  even  how  I  could  have  mourned  ;  for  after  I 
opened  at  those  words,  I  felt  as  though  there  was  no  trial  that  I 
would  not  be  willing  to  brave,  to  show  God  that  I  would  ever  put  my 
trust  in  Him. 

The  following  day  I  went  out,  but  met  with  no  success ;  yet  I  re- 
turned home  hopeful  and  happy,  and  as  soon  as  I  entered  my  room,  I 
fell  on  my  knees  and  renewed  my  vow  to  God  that  I  would  ever  trust 
and  ho])e  in  Him,  even  though  He  brought  me  to  the  direst  woe;  for 
I  knew  that  His  hand  could  raise  me  up  and  deliver  me  whenever  He 
would. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Voice's  aunt  gave  me  a  long  list  of  names. 
They  were  all  Catholics.     I  called   on  nearly  every  one  of  them, 
but  did  not  succeed  in  raising  over  twenty  dollars  froai  them  all.     I 
23 


530 


ONE  TRUE    FRIEND. 


resolved,  after  that,  not  to  apply  to  Catholics  any  more.  So  I  called 
on  Mr.  Willniarth,  Vice-President  of  the  Home  Insurance  Co.  He 
gave  fifty  dollars  and  a  letter  to  Mr.  Dorr  Russell,  of  the  Loancrs 
Bank.  Mr.  Russell  gave  me  letters  to  several  gentlemen,  from  whom 
I  succeeded  in  getting  five  hundred  dollars. 

I  called  on  Ceneral  Dix.  He  was  one  of  the  few  among  all  my  old 
acquaintances  who  treated  me  in  the  same  manner  in  adversity  as  in 
prosperity  ;  and  it  cheered  me  up  to  feel  that  there  was  even  one  man 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  whose  friendship  adverse  fortune  could  not 
change. 


CHAPTER  CVni. 


MV     DRIVING      LESSON. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  get  any  more  subscrijjtions,  on  account  of 
the  Chicago  fire,  1  resolved  to  go  home  and  pass  the  winter  on  my 
farm. 

Mrs.  Voice  had  left  me,  and  soon  went  to  live  in  Amenia. 

I  was  driving  out  one  day, — it  was  the  first  of  November, — and  my 
horses  ran  away.  I  had  hold  of  the  reins,  and  succeeded  in  managing 
them  until  they  chose  to  stop.  But  I  called  on  God  to  hel;)  me  at 
every  breath.  I  looked  upon  my  escape  as  miraculous,  and  attrib- 
uted it  all  to  the  hand  of  God. 

That  night  I  awoke  shortly  after  midnight,  and  I  immediataly  recol- 
lected that  it  was  the  2d  of  November,  a  memorable  day  for  me.  It  was 
the  fourth  anniversary  of  the  day  that  I  had  been  able,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  to  forgive  my  mother,  as  the  Angelus  bell  of  St.  Mande  ushered 
in  All  Souls  Day. 

There  would  be  Mass  celebrated  early  the  next  morning  in  Amenia. 
But  Amenia  was  seven  miles  away.  Ever  since  my  conversion  I 
had  always  offered  up  my  communion  on  that  day  for  the  repose  of 
-the  soul  of  my  mother,  and  I  felt  that  to  neglect  it  would  be  almost  a 
crime.  Yet  I  was  afraid  to  go,  on  account  of  the  horses  having  run 
away ;  but  a  moment  afterwards  I  was  afraid  to  stay  away  for  such  a 
reason.  I  feared  that  God  would  punish  me  for  my  want  of  faith.  I 
rose  and  told  the  boy  to  harness  the  horses,  and  we  would  go  to 


A   RACK  AGAINST   TIME. 


531 


|o  I  called 
I  Co.      He 

I-oancrs 
[■oin  whom 

jail  my  old 

jrsity  as  in 

In  one  man 

could  not 


iccoiint  of 
ter  on  my 

a. 

■, — and  my 

managing 

lielp  me  at 

ind  attrib- 

.taly  recol- 
le.  It  was 
i  grace  of 
6  ushered 

1  Amenia. 
version  I 
repose  of 
almost  a 
iving  run 
or  such  a 
faith.  I 
lid  go  to 


Mass ;  but,  before  we  started,  we  offered  up  a  prayer  that  God  would 
protect  us. 

Everything  went  on  well  until  we  came  within  two  miles  of  the 
church,  and  then  the  horses  started  to  run.  The  wheels  almost  ceased 
to  turn,  and  would  hardly  touch  the  ground.  The  moment  the 
horses  ran  I  seized  the  reins  in  one  hand,  and  held  the  boy  in  with 
the  other  ;  he  was  determined  to  jump  out,  for  he  was  frightened.  I 
was  not ;  1  felt  that  (lod  was  with  me.  They  ran  about  two  miles,  until 
they  reached  the  village,  where  they  were  stoi)ped  by  some  men. 

After  I  had  received  Holy  Communion,  and  was  returning  to  my 
seat,  I  nearly  fainted ;  but  1  never  felt  so  happy  and  hopeful  in  my 
life,  I  felt  that  Cod  would  give  me  a  rich  reward  for  that  morning's 
act  of  l^'aith.  Father  Tandy  told  his  man  John  to  get  into  the  wagon 
and  drive  me  home.  Hut  we  had  not  gone  far  when  the  horses  started 
to  run  again.  John  got  afraid,  and  I  took  the  reins,  and  the  horses 
stoi)ped  the  instant  that  I  began  to  pray. 

The  boy  was  standing  up  behind  us,  holding  on  to  the  seat ;  but 
the  moment  the  horses  stopped  he  began  to  laugh.  Said  I  :  "  What 
is  there  here  to  laugh  about  ?  "  Said  he  :  "I  laugh  to  see  how  John 
turned  pale  ;  but  if  they  start  to  run  again,  I  swear  that  I'll  jump 
out,  and  I'll  bet  that  both  of  you,  if  you  tried,  could  not  hold  me 
in  again."  Said  I :  "  We  will  let  you  go  ;  for  we  shall  have  as  much 
as  we  can  attend  to,  on  this  side  of  the  seat." 

We  got  home  safely,  and  our  miraculous  escape  was  the  talk  of  the 
town  ;  for  all  those  who  saw  the  horses  run,  expected  we  should  all 
be  killed ;  and  they  were  still  more  amazed  that  we  should  always 
escape  without  the  slightest  injury  to  horses,  wagon,  harness,  or 
ourselves. 

I  have  said  that  all  were  amazed.  But  no  !  for  there  was  neighbor 
White,  who  was  the  great  horseman  of  the  place.  He  laughed,  and 
made  fun  of  me  for  "  allowing  those  ponies  to  run  away,"  and 
would  often  exclaim  :  "But  what  does  a  woman  know  about  manag- 
ing a  team  ?  You  should  take  me  along  with  you  to  teach  you  how 
to  drive."  Said  I :  "  My  friend,  you  shall  have  a  chance,  any  time 
you  choose  to  go." 

Shortly  afterwards  I  told  the  boy  to  harness  the  horses  and  drive  to 
Wassaic,  to  get  a  load  of  stove-pipe  which  I  had  bought  for  my  church. 
He  looked  at  me  when  I  gave  the  order,  as  though  I  were  sending 
him  to  his  grave.    The  boy  begged  nie  to  go  along  for  fear  the  horses 


I  PUT  MY   TRUST   IN   MAN. 


r  .it  ni  1  away.  It  was  getting  late  ;  there  was  no  time  to  lose ;  to 
.'"  ^  iiim,  I  got  in.  We  had  hardly  got  started  before  he  declared 
V  .  if  the  horses  should  begin  to  run,  he  would  surely  jump  out,  and 
that  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  hold  him  in. 

Just  at  that  moment  we  passed  a  corn-field  where  I  saw  neighbor 
White  at  work.  I  called  out  to  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  not 
exchange,  and  drive  the  team,  and  let  the  boy  husk  the  corn.  "Cer- 
tainly," he  replied,  "and  I  will  sJioxv  you  how  to  drive." 

In  an  instant  the  boy  was  down  out  of  the  wagon  into  the  field, 
and  he  threw  after  us  a  parting  look,  as  though  he  never  expected  to 
see  either  of  us  alive  again.  Mr.  White  examined  the  harness  and 
the  wagon  to  see  if  everything  was  safe,  and,  as  a  double  jirecaution, 
he  buckled  on  an  extra  pair  of  reins.  After  he  had  i)ronounced  every- 
thing safe  and  sound,  he  jumped  buoyantly  on  the  seat,  snapped  his 
whip,  and  said :  "You  must  show  them  that  you  are  not  afraid  of 
them — that's  the  way  to  drive." 

I  at  once  recollected  that  I  had  forgotten  to  pray ;  "but,"  thought 
I,  "  there  is  no  danger  with  neighbor  White  and  an  extra  pair  of  reins  !  " 
The  thought  had  hardly  crossed  my  mind,  when  Mr.  White  spoke  up 
in  a  bantering  way,  and  said :  "  Before  we  go  any  further,  you  must 
promise  to  buy  me  a  ticket  for  the  next  train  for  York  if  these  ponies 
happen  to  get  away."  Said  I  :  "  We  can  keep  on  ;  I  will  pay  for 
your  ticket,  be  not  afra'd ;  but  please  don't  Hourish  your  whip  so 
until  we  get  down  the  hills  on  the  plain."  He  laughed  at  me  for  being 
afraid  when  he  was  by  my  side.  Said  he  :  "  If  you  had  the  boy  along, 
then  you  might  be  afraid ; "  and  he  jerked  the  reins  most  daringly, 
and  snapped  his  whip  again.  Thought  I  to  myself:  "I  wish  they 
would  run  away,  and  frighten  him  half  to  death." 

W^e  arrived  at  the  depot  perfectly  safe  ;  but,  long  before  we  got 
there,  Mr.  White  acknowledged  that  they  were  the  fastest  trotters  in 
the  place.  "  liut  you  see  it  takes  a  man  to  manage  a  team.  WI)y 
don't  you  get  one  to  take  care  oi you  and  your  place  ?"  He  loaded 
the  wagon  with  pipe,  and  we  started  for  home.  All  the  while  he  kept 
running  down  my  horsemanship  and  praising  up  his  own. 

We  had  gotten  within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  my  home,  when  the 
horses  started  to  run  as  they  had  done  three  different  times  with  me. 
Neighbor  White  turned  deatlily  pale,  as  he  braced  his  feet  against 
the  board  and  pulled  on  the  reins.  The  horses  did  not  stop  for 
that,  but  dashed  along  at  lightning  speed.      I  did  not  pray,  nor  even 


to  lose ;  to 
[he  declared 
f"P  out,  and 

nv  neighbor 
|e  would  not 
lorn.    "Cer- 

Ito  the  field, 

expected  to 

larness  and 

precaution, 

meed  ever)-- 

snai)ped  his 

ot  afraid  of 

lit,"  thought 
ir  of  reins  ! " 
te  spoke  up 
r,  you  must 
//test'  ponies 
will  pay  for 
ur  whip   so 
lie  for  being 
boy  along, 
'St  daringly, 
I  wish  they 

ore  we  got 
:  trotters  in 
am.  Why 
He  loaded 
ile  he  kept 

,  when  the 
5  with  me. 
et  against 
:  stop  for 
,  nor  even 


MY   CONFIDENCE  DASHED. 


533 


raise  my  heart  to  God,  for  I  put  my  trust  in  neighbor  White.  But 
soon  we  came  in  sight  of  the  turn — and  that  was  all  I  saw  ;  for,  in 
the  same  instant,  I  was  thrown  fifteen  feet,  with  neighbor  White  by 
my  side ;  but  "  the  ponies "  still  kept  up  their  pace,  leaving  the 
stovepipe,  the  wagon,  neighbor  White,  and  myself  behind. 

J  was  knocked  senseless,  and  when  I  came  to  consciousness,  I 
was  in  a  one-horse  wagon,  leaning  on  neighbor  White,  who  was  driv- 
ing with  one  hand,  and  sustaining  me  with  the  other.  Said  I : 
"Where  are  we,  Mr.  White?"  ''Why,"  said  he,  "  don't  you  know 
how  the  wagon  upset,  and  the  horses  got  away,  and  you  and  I  were 
thrown  close  to  the  Dominie's  fence? — and  it  was  a  wonder  that  we 
were  not  killed.  Miles  Bump  got  the  water  to  wash  the  blood  from 
your  face.  This  is  Hen.  Bird's  wagon.  Oh,  my  leg,  how  it  aches!" 
As  soon  as  I  could  recollect  myself,  I  exclaimed :  **  It  serves  me 
right,  because  I  did  not  pray.  If  I  had  only  prayed,  the  horses  never 
would  have  gotten  away." 

As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  house,  I  noticed  that  neighbor  White 
would  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  then  to  his  elbow,  and  then  to  his 
knee,  the  same  as  I  had  seen  the  negro  ministrels  do,  when  they 
finish  playing  the  tambourine.  I  could  not  refrain  from  laughing,  and 
I  asked  him  how  it  happened  that  he  was  there,  and  why  he  had  not 
taken  the  down  express  train.  Said  he  :  "  I  have  ridden  on  the 
York  Central  lightning  express  ;  but  the  fastest  ride  I  ever  took 
was  the  one  I  had  to  night.  All  creation  could  not  have  held  those 
brutes  ;  for,  in  trying  to  hold  them,  I  pushed  both  the  heels  off  my 
boots  ;"  and  he  held  up  before  me  a  pair  of  heelless  boots,  the  sight 
of  which  convinced  me  that  it  was  better  for  me  to  put  my  trust  in 
God,  and  hold  the  reins  myself,  than  it  was  to  take  neighbor  White 
along  to  teach  me  how  to  drive.  From  that  day  forth  neighbor 
White  never  spoke  about  the  ponies^  but  he  has  sometimes  gently 
inquired  how  the  horses  were. 


CHAPTER  CIX. 

A    FALSE    LIGHT. — A    TRUE    DREAM. 


After  the  accident  of  the  horses  running  away,  the  boy  and  the 
girl  wanted  to  leave  me  to  go  home.     The  boy  was  even  afraid  to 


534 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED. 


I>r! 


lead  the  horses  to  drink,  and  he  left  at  once  ;  but  the  girl  consented 
to  remain  another  month.  I  began  then  to  think  that  it  was  about 
time  for  me  to  leave  too.  So  the  ist  of  December  found  me  again 
in  New  York  at  the  Westminster  Hotel. 

On  the  feast  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  December  8th,  I  was 
enrolled  among  •'  the  children  of  Mary."  Wiiile  at  the  altar  i  prayed 
God  that  my  child  and  I  might  both  become  perfect  in  His  sight,  and 
that  I  might  be  able  to  pay  my  notes  which  fell  due  on  the  2  7tli. 
That  same  evening  I  was  at  a  Fair  in  St.  Xavier's  College  ;  Mr.  Dorr 
Russell  was  there,  and  he  asked  me  why  I  looked  so  thoughtful  and 
dejected.  Said  I:  "I  don't  know  how  I  am  going  to  pay  off  my 
notes  on  the  27th ;  for  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  a  subscription  for 
the  past  three  days."  "  Don't  be  sad  on  that  account,"  said  he, 
"  for  I  know  a  gentleman  who  will  lend  you  the  money,  and  who  will 
take  your  note  for  security.  Mr.  John  Butler,  the  gentleman  I  intro- 
duced to  you  here  last  evening,  will  help  you  with  a  loan."  A  few 
days  afterwards  Mr.  Butler  lent  me  the  money,  asking  no  other 
security  than  my  note,  jiayable  in  six  months. 

I  attributed  this  good  fortune  to  the  intercession  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  I  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  following  day  at  her  altar 
in  the  basement  of  St.  Xavier's  Church,  offering  my  most  heartfelt 
thanks  to  God  for  His  goodness  and  mercy. 

When  I  left  her  altar  that  day,  it  was  like  taking  away  the  steel 
from  the  loadstone,  so  drawn  was  my  whole  soul  to  that  sjjot  ;  and  I 
retired  that  night  wishing  it  were  already  day,  that  I  might  return.  I 
passed  the  next  day  as  I  had  the  preceding  one,  and  so  I  continued 
for  a  whole  week. 

When  I  went  to  confession,  I  accused  myself  of  having  been  indo- 
lent, and  told  the  Father  precisely  how  I  had  passed  the  week,  trying 
to  excuse  myself  by  describing  tiie  feelings  that  came  over  me  when- 
ever I  rose  to  leave  the  altar,  and  how  it  required  the  greatest  effort 
of  my  will  to  stop  praying. 

To  my  surprise,  the  Father  did  not  scold  me.  I  took  advantage 
of  his  leniency,  and  passed  another  week  in  the  same  way.  And  so 
I  continued,  and  passed  aI)out  four  weeks,  when  the  Father  said  to 
me:  "Now  you  must  go  to  work,  for  you  must  work  as  well  as 
l)ray." 

The  n»^xt  day  I  did  go  out  and  try  to  get  subscriptions;  but  I  re- 
turned about  live  o'clock  to  the  chapel,  and  wept  there  until  eight  p.m. 


1 


A  SULPHUROUS  LIGHT. 


535 


jl  consented 
lit  was  about 
Id  nie  again 

r  8tli,  I  was 
tar  i  ])raycd 
is  sight,  and 
n  the  27th. 
;  Mr.  Dorr 
iightful  and 
pay  off  my 
scription  for 
It,"  said  he, 
nd  who  will 
man  I  intro- 
in."     A  few 
iig  no  other 

the  Blessed 
'  at  her  altar 
ost  heartfelt 

ay  the  steel 
spot ;  and  I 
It  return.  I 
I  continued 

been  indo- 
.'cek,  trying 
r  me  when- 
latest  effort 

advantage 
►'.  And  so 
ler  said   to 

as  well  as 

;  but  I  re- 
eight  p.,vi. 


The  next  morning  I  saw  the  Father  in  the  confessional,  and  wejit ' 
bitterly,  as  I  related  to  him  the  humiliations  I  had  been  through  tlie 
preceding  day.  He  told  me  to  try  and  bear  up  under  them,  by  medi- 
tating on  the  Passion  of  our  Lord.  For  a  whole  week  I  tried  to  do 
just  a^-  he  had  recommended ;  but  I  was  soon  disheartened,  and  be- 
came a  prey  to  the  most  violent  temptations.  I  began  to  long  once 
more  to  return  to  France.  My  director  tried  to  incite  me  to  work, 
but  his  efforts  failed.  Once  he  said  to  me  :  **  I  do  not  know  what 
God  intends  to  do  with  you ;  but  I  am  sure  that  He  wants  us  all  to 
work  as  well  as  pray."  * 

One  evening  I  returned  to  the  hotel  sad  and  discouraged,  with  my 
mind  fully  determined  to  give  up  the  life  of  retirement  and  devotion  that 
I  was  lea  ling.  I  took  up  my  Bible  and  opened  it,  hoping  it  would 
sanction  my  determination,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  these  words  in  Eccle- 
siastes  x.  19  :  "A  feast  is  made  for  laughter,  and  wine  maketh  merry  ; 
but  money  answereth  a//  things."  As  I  read  those  words,  I  received 
with  them  a  light ;  but  it  was  a  sulphurous  light,  compared  to  the 
lights  1  had  always  received  when  I  had  opened  the  Bible  to  know 
the  will  of  God,  with  the  intention  of  doing  it  whether  it  suited  my 
will  or  not.  I  instantly  rose  to  my  feet,  and  stretching  out  my  arms 
before  me,  as  though  I  would  seize  the  Devil  by  the  horns,  and  push 
him  from  me,  1  exclaimed  :  "  That  was  you,  old  Devil,  who  opened 
at  that  place  L" 

My  conscience  told  me  it  was  a  false  light.  I  made  a  firm  resolve 
to  do  right  and  to  persevere ;  and  no  sooner  had  I  made  that  act  of 
my  will,  which  must  have  been  pleasing  to  (iod,  than  I  received  an- 
other light,  but  this  time  a  true  one.  My  thoughts  instantly  reverted 
to  Father  Bazin,  and  his  having  told  me  that  it  was  dangerous  and 
wrong  for  me  to  seek  to  know  the  will  of  God  by  resorting  to  such 
extraordinary  means.  1  saw  that  my  revelations  might  come  from 
the  Devil  i. ,  well  as  from  God;  for  I  was  just  as  certain  that  the 
revelation  1  had  just  opened  at  came  to  me  from  the  Devil,  as  I  was 
that  the  other  ones  had  come  from  God.  I  sank  on  my  knees,  and 
thanked  (iod,  with  fear  and  trembling,  for  having  thus  far  escaped; 
for  I  was  sure  that  all  my  former  revelations  had  coine  from  Him. 
But  as  I  was  now  convinced  that  the  Devil  could  mix  himself  up 
with  them,  1  asked  myself:  "  How  am  I  to  know  in  future  which  is 
from  God,  and  which  from  the  Devil?  I  have  had  the  grace  this 
time,  but  will  it  always  be  so?"  • 


\ 


r  II. 


U; 


'  :.'■ 


iSv, 


',.  '■ 


hi' 


536 


A  DREAM. 


I  felt  drawn  to  tell  Father  Merrick  about  these  things,  and  ask  him 
how  I  should  decide  ;  but  I  was  afraid  that  he  would  altogether  for- 
bid my  consulting  the  JJible,  as  Father  Bazin  had  done. 

I  now  passed  nearly  all  my  time,  during  the  day,  in  St.  Xavicr's 
Chapel  before  the  altar  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Thus  I  passed  all  the 
month  of  February.  March  came,  but  it  did  not  bring  the  slightest 
change  in  my  disposition  or  my  situation,  excepting  that  1  was  drawn 
more  and  more  to  prayer. 

February  loth  I  drove  to  Manhattanville,  to  see  my  child.  I  saw 
Madam  Hardey  and  confided  to  her  many  things,  among  them  that  I 
was  determined  that  Father  Tandy  should  never  have  charge  of  my 
church,  and  that  I  expected  to  have  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  ])ro- 
curing  a  priest.  I  asked  her  what  I  should  do.  She  replied  :  "  Say 
the  thirty  days'  prayer  and  ask  our  Lord  to  get  you  a  priest,  and  I 
am  sure  that  you  will  get  your  recjuest." 

I  began  to  say  it  that  very  day,  and  continued  saying  it  every  day. 

On  Sunday  evening,  the  25th  of  February,  1872,  I  was  at  St. 
Francis  Xavier's  Church  at  Benediction,  and,  as  the  priest  raised  the 
ostensorium,  I  implored  our  Lord  to  send  me  a  true  dream,  and  let 
me  know  where  I  should  apply  for  a  priest,  and  if  1  would  have  one 
for  my  little  church.  I  made  the  request  three  times,  and  made  it 
with  all  my  heart. 

Towards  morning,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing  in  the  lot  where 
my  church  is  built,  and  Father  Tandy  came  up  to  me  and  handed 
mean  envelope  on  which  was  written  "  Fathkr  Keaknky;"  and 
as  he  pointed  to  the  name  written  on  the  envelope,  he  said  :  "Tlie 
Archbishop  calls  him  his  old  veteran."  I  then  looked  up  at  the 
church,  and  I  saw  a  priest  whom  1  had  never  seen  before  standing 
inside  of  it.  I  asked  Fatlier  Tandy  who  the  strange  priest  was.  He 
replied,  "  That  is  Father  Kearney."  While  I  was  looking  at  him,  I 
awoke.  The  dream  was  vividly  impressed  on  my  mind,  and  I  kept 
thinking  it  over.  I  had  never  heard  of  a  priest  by  the  name  of 
Kearney  before,  and  the  thought  struck  me  that  the  next  time  I  saw 
Father  Tandy  I  would  ask  him  if  he  knew  a  priest  by  that  name. 
That  same  day  I  saw  in  the  '■'■  HaahV^  a  report  of  a  sermon  by  the 
Rev.  Father  Kearney.     In  it  he  atlvocated  the  efficacy  of  prayer. 

Tuesday  I  went  to  the  Sisters  of  Charity  in  Prince  Street,  and  intjuired 
of  them  where  the  priest  lived  who  preached  at  the  Cathedral  on  the 
previous  Sunday.     They  gave  me  the  address  ;  it  was  in  Mulberry 


land  ask  him 
Itogcther  for- 

JSt.   Xavier's 

lassed  all  the 

[the  slightest 

|l  was  drawn 

I'll' Id.  I  saw 
them  that  I 
harge  of  my 
iil)le  in  j^ro- 
>lied  :  "Say 
)riest,  and  I 

t  every  day. 
was  at  St. 
St  raised  the 
-am,  and  let 
ml  have  one 
vnd  made  it 

e  lot  where 
and  handed 
NKV;"  and 
aid:    "The 
'  lip  at  the 
"e  standing 
t  was.     He 
?  at  him,  I 
and  I  kept 
e  name  of 
iiiie  I   saw 
liat  name. 
Jon  by  the 
l)rayer. 
id  in(juired 
ral  on  the 
Mulberry 


FATHER  KEARNEY. 


537 


Street  j  and  in  a  moment  more,  I  was  ringing  at  the  door.  But  I  no 
sooner  rang  than  I  felt  like  running  away  ;  for,  after  all,  what  could 
I  say  ?  The  door  was  instantly  opened,  and  I  was  told  that  Father 
Kearney  was  in.  I  wished  then  that  he  were  out ;  for,  by  this  time, 
I  was  so  nervous  that  I  trembled  like  a  leaf.  I  waited  about  ten  miu- 
utes  for  him  to  come  down,  during  which  time  I  walked  the  room, 
invoking  all  the  while  the  Jielp  of  God  and  the  intercession  of  all  the 
saints.  I  was  about  to  leave  ;  but,  as  I  opened  the  room  door  which 
leads  into  the  hall,  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  a  priest,  who 
was  the  very  image  of  him  whom  I  had  seen  in  my  dream.  I  looked 
at  him,  without  speaking,  until  he  asked  me  if  I  was  the  person  who 
desired  to  see  him.  "Yes,"  I  rejjlied,  "and  if  you  will  permit  me, 
I  will  tell  you  frankly  what  broMght  me  here." 

I  then  related  to  him  the  whole  affair  with  as  much  composure  as 
though  I  had  known  him  for  years.  At  four  o'clock  I  went  to  St. 
Xavier's  Chapel,  to  offer  up  my  thanks  to  God  for  having  answered 
my  prayer,  and  for  having  given  me  a  true  dream.  I  was  fully  satis- 
fied now  that  the  day  w.^uld  come  when  I  would  need  a  priest,  and 
that  I  would  only  have  to  go  to  Father  Kearney  and  he  would  help 
to  get  one. 

That  evening  I  called  on  Father  Merrick.  I  commenced  by  ask- 
ing him  not  to  scold  me.  "  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  am  sure  now  that  you 
have  been  up  to  some  mischief.  But  tell  me  what  it  is,  and  I  will 
see  what  is  best  to  say." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  if  it  is  mischief,  God  is  to  blame ;  because  I 
prayed  to  Him  and  He  answered  my  prayer."  "  Of  course,"  said 
he,  "  that  is  the  way  all  sinners  begin — by  excusing  themselves  and 
accusing  God." 

I  then  related  to  him  my  story,  beginning  with  Sunday,  the  loth, 
when  I  saw  Madam  Hardey,  who  told  me  to  say  the  thirty  days' 
prayer. 

Said  he  :  "  I  believe  your  guardian  angel  sent  you  that  dream.  I 
am  glad  you  colled  on  Father  Kearney :  you  could  not  have  called 
on  a  better  man." 

He  asked  me  if  I  had  never  seen  or  lieard  of  him  before.  I  positive- 
ly declared  I  had  not,  and  assured  him  that  he  could  believe  me,  as  I 
was  going  to  receive  Holy  Communion  the  following  morning. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  as  you  believe  that  that  dream  came  from  God, 
I  will  tell  you  how  I  Ano7ci  that  I  am  going  to  marry  the  Viscount  de 
23* 


I 


I 


538 


DIVERSE    INTERPRETATIONS. 


Laferrierc."  And  I  rebted  to  him  the  vision  that  I  had  had  on  tl,e 
night  of  the  day  I  was  baptized ;  how  I  had  prayed  earnestly  before 
going  to  bed,  and  asked  our  Lord  to  tell  me  when  I  would  marry 
l.aferriere,  and  how  distinctly  I  had  felt  the  presence  of  our  Lord 
without  seeing.Him  ;  how  He  had  shown  me  a  piece  of  jjaper  with 
different  combinations  of  the  numbers  4  and  2  on  it,  and  had  said  that 
I  would  have  to  receive  His  grace  as  many  times  as  there  were  num- 
bers on  that  slip  of  paper  before  I  could  be  uiated  to  Him. 

The  Father  was  deeply  interested  in  what  I  told  him.  He  said  to 
me  :  "  You  say  that  you  felt  the  presence  of  our  Lord,  and  that  He 
said  to  you  that  you  would  have  to  receve  His  grace  as  many  times 
as  there  were  numbers  on  that  piece  of  peeper  before  you  could  be 
united  to  Him,  and  you  saw  Laferridre  turning  from  you,  looking  sad  ; 
and  yet  you  interpret  the  vision  as  though  it  meant  that  you  would 
one  day  be  united  to  Laferri^r^^  !  As  for  myself,  I  would  put  on  it 
an  entirely  different  interpretation." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  I  know  very  wtll  what  interpretation  you  would 
put  on  it.  But  I  will  have  none  of  that ;  for  I  know  what  our 
Lord  meant,  and  He  now  intends,  as  soon  as  I  finish  my  church,  to 
let  me  go  back  to  France  and  riarry  I^aferriere." 

This  was  on  the  27th  of  February.  Whenever  I  saw  the  Father 
afterwards  he  would  invariably  refer  to  the  dream  I  had  had  on  the 
night  of  the  day  I  was  baptized.  He  no  longer  insisted  upon  my 
going  out  to  get  subscriptions  :  he  only  exhorted  me  to  continue  to 
pray. 


MISGIVINGS. 


539 


CHAPTER    ex. 


TEMPTATION. — SAVED    BY   THE    RIBI.E. — MY   FIRST   GENERAL   CON- 
FESSION. 


m 


On  the  nth  of  March  I  had  finished  the  thirty  days'  prayer.  I 
had  written  to  a  gentleman,  who  resided  out  of  town,  to  come  and  see 
nie  on  the  evening  of  that  day ;  for  I  was  determined  that,  if  there 
was  no  change  in  my  position  by  the  time  I  had  finished  the  thirty 
days'  prayer,  1  would  give  up  and  go  back  to  France.  I  felt  that  I 
had  prayed  long  enough,  and  if  God  did  not  come  to  my  assistance, 
it  must  be  that  I  was  laboring  under  a  delusion. 

I  was  sure  the  gentleman  had  arrived  and  would  call  on  me,  for  in 
the  afternoon  I  had  sent  around  one  of  the  hall-boys,  with  a  note,  to 
his  hotel.  He  was  a  good  man,  who  had  always  taken  an  interest  in 
me ;  but  he  was  sorry  to  see  me  such  a  *'  fervent  Romanist,"  as  he 
called  it.  I  knew  that  the  moment  I  should  tell  him  that  I  was 
ready  to  give  up  my  religious  practices  and  my  present  mode  of  life, 
and  that  I  wanted  to  return  to  France  and  marry  LaferriSre,  he 
would  give  me  the  means  to  go,  and  would  also  settle  up  all  my 
affairs. 

I  was  very  sad,  and  kept  saying  to  myself:  "  If  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven  h-;  cannot  blame  me  for  this  step ;  for  have  I  not  prayed  ? 
have  I  not  trusted  in  Him  ?  and  have  I  not  made  every  sacrifice  ?  " 
All  these  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  while  I  was  dressing.  I 
arranged  myself  with  more  than  usual  care.  I  painted  my  eyes,  and 
decked  myself  with  the  few  ornaments  I  had  still  retained.  I  hoped 
he  would  let  me  have  the  money  to  finish  the  church  ;  for,  although 
I  doubted  of  everything  now,  yet  I  disliked  to  go  back  to  Europe 
without  being  able  to  say  that  I  had  accomplished  what  I  came  for. 

To  while  away  the  time  until  the  gentleman  came,  I  took  up  the 
Bible,  and  began  reading  over  those  passages  which  I  now  accused 
of  having  deluded  me.  I  began  with  the  first  one  I  had  opened  at,  in 
the  29th  chapter  of  Jeremiah.  I  read  them  all  through,  as  thoughtlessly 
as  I  '  ould  have  read  an  old  letter  that  I  knew  by  heart.    After  taking 


540 


GOD   IS   A  JEALOUS   LOVER. 


a  long,  admiring  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,  I  said  :  "  Old  Bible,  I 
will  open  you  once  more,  to  see  what  you  will  have  to  say  ;  but  I 
have  been  your  dupe  long  enough ; "  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  I  on  the  instant  opened  the  Bible,  and  was  startled  at  seeing 
the  following  verse : 

'•  And  furthermore,  that  ye  have  sent  for  men  to  come  from  far, 
unto  whom  a  messenger  was  sent ;  and,  lo,  they  came  :  for  whom  thou 
didst  wash  thyself,  paintedst  thy  eyes,  and  deckedst  thyself  with  orna- 
ments."    (Ezek.  xxiii.  40.) 

1  restrained  my  tears,  because  I  did  not  wish  to  wash  off  the  pen- 
cilling from  my  eyes.  But  the  passage  had  wrought  a  change  in  me, 
and  I  believed  that  God  had  ever  been  with  me  and  was  with  me 
still. 

I  really  believed  that  He  had  just  spoken  to  me,  and  that  He  de- 
manded of  me  to  stop  painting  my  eyes,  before  He  would  fulfil  His 
promises.  But  I  could  not  make  my  mind  up  to  such  a  sacrifice ; 
for  Laferriere  had  always  admired  my  dark  eyelids,  little  suspecting 
that  they  were  painted.  And  I  said  to  our  I^ord  :  "  Now  you  are 
asking  too  much,  for  I  will  not  stop  painting  my  eyes." 

1  took  the  Bible  and  began  reading  those  j-assagts  which  had  pre- 
saged happiness  for  me.  I  read  and  re-read  them  wuh  an  incredu- 
lous and  almost  despairing  heart.  In  reading  thi;  fust  passage 
which  had  consoled  me  so  much  in  Paris,  I  was  for  the  first  time 
struck  with  the  condition  which  the  Lord  imposes  in  the  last  verse, 
"And  ye  shall  seek  me  and  find  me,  when  ye  shall  search  for  me 
with  all  your  heart."  I  repeated  it  several  times :  "  And  ye  shall 
seek  me  and  ?.nd  me,  when  ye  shall  search  for  me  with  all  youi 
heart."  I  reproached  myself,  for  the  first  time,  for  not  having  sought 
God  with  all  my  heart, — in  fact,  with  none  of  it ;  for  all  my  sacrifices, 
had  they  not  been  made  to  obtain  Laferriere,  and  not  for  God  Him- 
self? Addr^^sf.ing  God,  I  exclaimed :  "  I  have  always  heard  it  said 
that  Thou  art  v.  jealous  God  :  is  it  true  ?  "  And  distinctly  I  heard  a 
voice  within  me  answer,  "  Yes."  For  the  first  time  the  thought  oc- 
curred to  me  that  God  might  be  jealous  of  Laferriere.  The  idea 
pleased  me ;  for,  of  all  sentiments,  jealousy  was  the  one  that  J 
thought  I  knew  the  most  about,  and  1  felt  that  if  God  was  jealous 
of  Laferriere,  He  must  love  me, — and  the  thought  delighted  me  tiiat 
God  could  love  me  well  enough  to  be  jealous  for  me. 

I  fell  on  my  knees  while  those  words  were  still  running  in  my 


mind, 


ni 


A  NOVENA. 


541 


mind,  "  And  ye  shall  seek  me  and  find  me,  when  ye  shall  search  for 
me  with  all  your  heart,"  and  exclaimed  aloud :  "  I  will  make  a  no- 
vena  to  St.  Joseph,  and  wii'  try  and  seek  Thee,  Lord,  and  not  La- 
ferri^re  ;  for  if  Thou  art  a  jealous  God,  Thou  couldst  not  have  been 
l)leased  with  me.  This  time  I  will  try  to  seek  Thee ;  but  I  implore 
Thee  to  give  me  the  grace  to  do  it."  I  sat  down  and  wrote  off  the 
following  prayer  for  my  novena  : — 

"wth  March,  1872. 

^'■Novena  Soliciting  the  Prayers  and  Protection  of  St.  Joseph: 

"  May  I  have  the  grace  to  give  my  whole  heart  to  God,  and  may 
I  love  God  with  all  my  heart.  May  I  become  patient  and  resigned, 
and  accept  all  past  and  future  humiliations  as  coming  from  His  hand, 
and  be  persuaded  that  they  are  all  for  my  eternal  good ;  and  may 
God  watch  over  me  and  inspire  all  my  ways.  May  He  bless  my  lit- 
tle clnirch  ;  may  I  be  able  to  finish  it ;  and  may  that  little  church  be  the 
means  of  saving  millions  of  souls.  May  1  become  a  true  Christian 
at  heart ;  may  I  have  more  faith,  and  may  I  persevere  unto  the  end." 

I  had  not  quite  finished  it,  when  the  hall-boy  brought  me  a  card. 
The  gentleman  I  expected  had  come,  and  I  told  the  boy  to  show 
him  to  my  room.  He  had  not  seen  me  for  some  time.  I  related  to 
him  how  I  had  passed  my  time  since  we  had  met,  and  I  handed  him 
the  novena  to  read  that  was  lying  before  him  on  the  table.  Said  he  : 
"  How  much  in  earnest  you  are  !  I  declare  God  ought  to  reward 
your  faith."  Before  leaving  he  asked  me  if  I  had  anything  special 
to  say  to  him.  I  told  him  that  I  did  have,  but  that  I  would  wait  an- 
other week,  for  I  was  going  to  let  the  result  of  that  novena  decide 
my  future. 

I  would  sometimes  repeat  my  nov^ena  over  twenty,  sometimes 
thirty  times  a  day.  I  would  usually  kneel  down  before  the  Altar  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  and  there  I  would  implore  our  Lord  to  drive  La- 
ferriSre  from  my  mind ;  for  I  was  determined  to  fulfil  this  condition, 
and  seek  Him  with  all  my  heart. 

1  would  pray  as  though  I  were  kneeling  at  the  Saviour's  feet  im- 
])loring  Him  to  love  me.  I  would  say  :  "  O  Lord  Jesus,  give  me  the 
grace  to  want  to  love  Thee  ;  give  me  the  desire  to  have  Thy  love." 
For  I  felt  that  the  Lord. could  read  my  heart,  and  I  would  acknowl- 
edge my  own  insincerity,  that  I  did  not  desire  it  as  much  as  I  pre- 
tended I  did ;  but  I  wished,  however,  that  I  could  have  the  desire. 


1 


;  i  \ 


542 


WORDS  OF   MERCY. 


Friday,  March  15th,  Father  Merrick  asked  me  if  it  ever  entered 
into  my  mind  to  become  a  religious.  "  Never,"  I  replied  ;  "  I 
would  hang  myself  first."  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  think  your  mind  has 
a  tendency  that  way.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  the  belief  that  God 
intends  to  call  you  to  be  a  religious." 

I  thought  to  myself:  "What  a  wily  set  of  fellows  these  Jesuits 
are  !  He  really  thinks  that  he  will  drag  me  into  a  convent"  (and  a 
cloister,  at  that  moment,  api)eared  to  me  like  a  tomb).  I  was  then 
determined  to  leave  him  ;  and  I  told  him  that  I  saw  through  him  ; 
that  he  need  not  think  he  should  ever  draw  me  into  a  convent. 
'*  It  is  God  who  will  draw  you  there,"  he  remarked,  "  not  I.  / 
could  not  remain  in  the  chapel  and  pray  for  hours  consecutively, 
as  you  do  :  it  would  wear  me  out  ;  but  your  soul  seems  to  delight 
in  it." 

That  day  I  was  fully  resolved  to  change  my  confessor. 

The  idea  of  becoming  a  religious,  which  Father  Merrick  had  just 
put  into  my  head,  kept  running  through  my  mind.  The  moment  I 
entered  my  room,  I  took  my  Bible,  and  fell  on  my  knees,  saying, 
O  beloved  Jesus,  I  implore  Thee  to  have  mercy  on  me  ;  do  take 
pity  on  me,  and  reveal  to  me  my  future,  and  let  me  know  if  1  am 
one  day  to  marry  Laferri^re  or  not.  But  Thou  knowest  that  I  could 
never  be  a  nun.  I  arose,  opened  the  Bible,  and  my  eyes  fell  on 
these  words  :  (Is.  liv.) 

"  4.  Fear  not ;  for  thou  shalt  not  be  ashamed  :  neither  be  thou 
confounded  ;  for  thou  shalt  not  be  put  to  shame :  for  thou  shalt  for- 
get the  shame  of  thy  youth,  and  shalt  not  remember  the  reproach  of 
thy  widowhood  any  more. 

"  5.  For  thy  Maker  is  thine  husband  ;  The  Lord  of  hosts  is  His 
name  ;  and  thy  Redeemer  the  Holy  One  of  Israel  j  The  God  of  the 
whole  earth  shall  He  be  called. 

"  6.  For  the  Lord  hath  called  thee  as  a  woman  forsaken  and 
grieved  in  spirit,  and  a  wife  of  youth,  when  thou  wast  refused,  saith 
thy  God.  . 

"  7.  For  a  small  moment  have  I  forsaken  thee  ;  but  with  great 
mercies  will  I  gather  thee. 

"  8.  In  a  little  wrath  I  hid  my  face  from  thee  for  a  moment ;  but 
•with  everlasting  kindness  will  1  have  mercy  on  thee,  saith  the  Lord 
thy  Redeemer, 

*'  9.  For  this  is  as  the  waters  of  Noah  unto  me  :  for  as  I  have  sworn 


THEIR   APPLICATION. 


543 


that  the  waters  of  Noah  should  no  more  go  over  the  earth  ;  so  have 
I  sworn  that  I  would  not  be  wroth  with  thee,  nor  rebuke  thee. 

"  lo.  I'or  the  mountains  shall  depart,  and  the  hills  be  removed  ;  but 
my  kindness  shall  not  depart  from  thee,  neither  shall  the  covenant 
of  my  peace  be  removed,  saith  the  Lord  that  hath  mercy  on  thee." 

I  was  astounded  at  the  wonderful  application  that  the  three  lirst 
verses  had  to  myself ;  but  I  did  not  receive  a  light,  and  that  sensi- 
ble grace  which  usually  accompanied  my  former  revelations  ;  and  I 
said  to  myself :  "  This  must  be  the  Devil,  who  is  in  league  with  that 
])riest  that  is  trying  to  draw  me  into  a  convent ;  "  and  I  said  to  our 
Lord  :  "  This  can  never  come  true  ;  1  cannot  be  Thy  spouse,  for 
Thou  knowest  that  1  could  never  become  a  nun." 

The  next  morning,  Saturday,  the  i6th  of  March,  the  instant  I 
awoke  I  heard  an  interior  voice  say,  '*  Go  and  make  a  general  con- 
fession." I  was  sure  that  (iod  had  spoken  to  me,  and  I  instantly 
replied:  "I  will."  At  ten  o'clock  I  went  to  see  the  Father,  and 
I  took  the  Bible  with  me.  The  moment  he  laid  eyes  on  it,  he 
exclaimed  :  "  What,  a  Protestant  Bible  !  "  Said  I  :  "  Not  a  word  ; 
you  and  all  the  priests  in  creation  could  not  separate  me  from  that 
Bible  ;  so  don't  you  say  one  word."  Said  he  :  "  I  permit  you  to 
keep  it  for  the  present ;  but  whenever  I  tell  you  to  give  it  up,  you 
will  give  it  up."  "  Don't  you  be  so  sure  of  that,"  said  I,  "  and  take 
good  care  that  you  do  not  forbid  it  very  soon,  lest  I  prove  to  you 
that  you  are  a  false  prophet."  I  then  showed  him  what  I  had  opened 
at  the  night  before ;  and,  when  he  read  it,  he  could  hardly  believe 
it  possible.  He  doubted  me,  and  it  wa,s  with  great  difficulty  I  could 
persuade  him  to  believe  that  I  had  never  seen  these  words  before. 
"  Well,"  said  he,  "  if  you  prayed  with  all  your  heart,  and  it  pleased 
God  to  make  His  will  known  unto  you  that  way,  you  will  surely  be 
a  religious."  I  ridiculed  his  words  in  my  heart,  but  was  glad  to  see 
that  he  no  longer  doubted  me. 

One  word  brouglit  on  another,  until  I  showed  him  all  the  other  pas- 
sages, beginning  at  the  firt'i,  and  relating  to  him  minutely  all  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  I  had  ojiened  at  them.  Said  he  :  "  All  this 
gives  me  light,  and  I  can  now  understand  why  you  left  Laferriere, 
and  why  you  still  persist  in  building  that  church.  But  why  have  you 
always  kept  these  things  to  yourself  ?" 

I  told  him  what  Father  Bazin  had  said  to  me,  and  that  I  was  afraid  to 
tell  him  lest  he  would  put  a  stop  to  it.     I  finished  by  saying  that  I 


544 


CONFESSION   OF  A   LIFETIME. 


intended  to  make  a  general  confession.  Said  he  :  "  What  has  put 
that  into  your  head?  How  you  do  change  !  "  Said  I  :  "  I  believe  dod 
told  me  to  make  it  this  morning  when  I  awoke."  He  told  me  to  go 
down  stairs  and  wait  for  him  at  his  confessional,  and,  in  the  mean- 
while, that  I  must  pray  God  to  give  me  grace  to  make  a  good  con- 
fession. I  obeyed  him.  He  kept  me  waiting  for  him  over  an  hour. 
I  then  began  to  make  my  confession  from  the  time  I  was  six  years 
old  up  to  the  present  moment.  When  I  finislied,  the  priest  gave  me 
absolution,  and  said  he  felt  that  God  was  with  me,  and  thot  He  had 
aided  me  to  make  a  good  confession. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  the  17th,  my  birthday.  That  morning, 
alter  I  rt  jived  Holy  Communion,  my  heart  began  to  burn  more  sen- 
sibly than  I  had  ever  felt  it  burn  before. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  Manhattanville,  where  I  saw  Madam 
Hardey  and  told  her  how  our  Lord  had  answered  my  thirty  days' 
prayer  by  the  vision  of  Father  Kearney.  Madam  Hardey  said  to 
me :  "  Why  are  you  so  surprised  that  God  should  have  answered  your 
prayer  ?  He  always  answers  our  jirayers  when  we  pray  for  that  which 
will  add  to  His  glory.     You  should  not  make  such  a  wonder  of  it." 

Her  words  impressed  me  so  much  that  1  kept  thinking  of  them  all 
the  way  going  home,  for  I  felt  that  Madam  Hardey  ought  to  know. 
That  I  loved  Madam  Hardey,  no  one  can  doubt,  and  1  was  de- 
termined now  to  pray  more  earnestly  than  ever. 


THE  LAME  GIRL'S  PKAYER. 


545 


CHAPTER  CXI. 


That  mornini! 


r        THK    EFFICACY   OF    PRAYKR. — DETACHMKNT   OF   THE    HEART. 

On  the  following  clay  1  called  on  Father  Merrick.  In  the  course 
of  conversation  he  remarked :  "  You  have  so  much  leisure  time,  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  that  you  will  devote  a  part  of  it  to  studying 
Latin."  "  Oh,"  said  I,  "  1  have  studied  Latin  ;  "  and  I  began  to  re- 
peat to  him  my  prayers  m  Latin.  "Why,"  said  he,  "you  know  all 
that  is  necessary.     Jhit  this  is  astonishing  that  you  should  have  ever 

studied   Latin;  all    this   goes  to  show ;"    he  hesitated.     l>ut  1 

knew  what  was  running  through  his  mind.  When  I  passed  out  I 
slammed  the  door  after  me,  and  said  :  "  It  is  the  last  time  that  I  will 
ever  cross  this  threshold.  Good-by,  Mr.  Jesuit;  I  have  had  enough 
of  you." 

I  went  into  the  chapel.  There  was  no  one  there  but  a  lame  girl. 
I  asked  her  to  pray  for  me.  1  knelt  down  ai  the  altar  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  and  I  otTered  up  my  whole  heart  to  God,  and  implored  Him 
to  take  it,  and  to  give  me  grace  to  love  Him.  At  that  instant  La- 
ferrii^re  rose  in  my  mind,  but  I  inwardly  exclaimed  :  "  Not  Laferri^re, 
I>ord,  but  Thee.  I  want  to  love  Thee."  I  felt  then  that  I  was  all  alone 
with  God,  that  I  had  no  one  to  go  to  for  consolation  and  iiity  but 
Him  ;  for  that  Jesuit  on  whom  I  had  relied  for  months  for  consola- 
tion and  sympathy,  had  the  cruelty  to  try  and  immure  me  in  a 
convent. 

After  I  had  prayed  earnestly  for  a  few  minutes,  I  became  softened, 
and  began  to  implore  our  Lord  to  come  and  help  me.  I  forgot  all 
about  my  anger  and  resentment,  in  my  longing  desire  to  know  and 
to  possess  the  love  of  God.  It  was  a  feeling  that  I  never  had  ex- 
perienced before.  Just  as  I  was  about  to  rise,  I  mentally  cried  :  "  O 
dearest  Jesus,  do  give  me  the  grace  to  love  Thee." 

I  then  turned  to  leave  the  altar,  and  was  embarrassed  to  see  that 
the  lame  girl  was  still  there  ;  for  in  my  fervor  I  had  forgotten  that  she 
was  beside  me  praying  for  me.  I  gave  her  my  hand  ;  but,  instead  of 
saying  Good-night,  I  said  Good-by, — meaning  Good-by  forever  to 
the  world  and  its  creatures,  that  I  was  from  that  hour  to  belong  to 
God. 


546 


THE   CRUCIFIX. 


As  I  pronounced  those  words,  "  good-by,"  she  let  go  my  hand, 
clasped  me  in  her  arms,  and  we  fondly  embraced.  It  was  as  though 
an  angel  had  kissed  nie.  I  then  hurried  out  of  the  chapel,  leaving 
the  girl  still  at  the  altar.  My  step  was  once  more  as  liglit  and  as  elastic 
as  it  was  when  a  child  1  used  to  roam  over  the  hills.  I  tripped  across 
Union  Scjuare  Park  to  the  Hotel,  as  though  I  had  just  been  relieve'd 
of  a  heavy  burden,  which  1  had  been  condemned  to  carry  for  years. 
I  ran  up  to  my  room  ;  the  gas  was  lighted  in  the  hall.  As  I  opened 
my  door,  the  light  shone  directly  on  my  crucifix,  which  seemed  to 
come  forward  to  embrace  me.  I  seized  it  in  my  hands,  for  my  whole 
soul  went  out,  as  it  were,  to  meet  it.  1  sank  upon  my  knees  as  1 
placed  it  to  my  lips.  I  covered  it  with  kisses  and  drenched  it  witli 
tears.  For  an  instant  I  was  speechless,  my  whole  soul  was  so  flooded 
with  joy — a  joy  that  no  tongue  can  describe,  for  it  was  that  joy 
which  is  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory. 

As  soon  as  I  could  give  utterance  to  my  thoughts,  I  exclaimed  : 
"  O  Beloved  Jesus,  how  good  Thou  art !  How  good  Thou  art !  for 
Thou  hast  answered  my  prayer."  I^aferriere's  image  then  arose  in 
my  mind  ;  but  1  shrank  from  it,  and  I  motioned  it  away  with  my 
hand.  God  had  thoroughly  detached  me  froni  him,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  He  permitted  him  to  rise  before  me  at  that  moment,  that  I 
might  see  how  poor  and  pitiable  an  object  I  had  left  for  Him  ;  for 
such  did  Laferriere  appear  to  me  then,  compared  to  the  image  of  our 
Lord,  which  I  felt  was  now  impressed  ujjon  my  soul. 

I  rose  from  my  knees  and  lit  the  gas,  and  as  I  did  so,  I  caught  a 
full  view  of  juy  face  in  the  glass.  My  tears  had  washed  so  effectually 
the  pencilling  from  my  eyes,  that  it  see  ned  as  though  I  had  not  really 
seen  my  face  before  for  ten  years  ;  and  i  recollected  how,  but  a  week 
ago,  I  refused  to  obey  our  Lord  whea  He  made  His  will  known  to 
me  that  He  wished  me  to  stoj)  painting  my  eyes.  As  the  thoughts  of 
my  obstinacy  and  vanity  flashed  over  me,  I  exclaimed  amid  a  renewed 
gush  of  tears :  "Iwill  scratch  my  eyes  out  sooner  than  ever  put  a 
pencil  to  them  again,"  and  I  took  the  whole  apparatus,  threw  it  into 
the  grate,  and  set.  it  on  fire,  and  then  returned  to  my  crucifix,  and  re- 
commenced sobbing  and  covering  it  with  kisses,  saying  to  our  Lord  : 
*'  Thou  hast  kept  Thy  word ;  for  Thou  hast  taken  from  me  that 
stony  heart,  and  hast  given  me  a  heart  of  flesh." 

1  then  took  up  my  liible  and  implored  our  Lord  to  speak  to  me, 
and  to  assure  nie  that  this  happiness  and  joy  which  now  flooded  my 


...^^■ 


'Hi  fH 


^.. 


0^" 


WORDS  OF  MERCY  REPEATED. 


547 


soul,  was  no  illusion,  and  that  it  would  never  pass  away;  and  in- 
stantly, by  chance,  I  opened  again  at  these  same  words,  I  had  opened 
at  on  Friday  : 

"4.  Fear  not;  for  thou  shalt  not  be  ashamed:  neither  be  thou 
confounded;  for  thou  shalt  not  be  put  to  shame :  for  thou  shalt  forget 
4^  shame  of  thy  youth,  and  shalt  not  remember  the  reproach  of  thy 
widowhood  any  more. 

"  5.  For  thy  Maker  is  thine  husband ;  the  Lord  of  hosts  is  His 
name;  and  the  Redeemer  the  Holy  One  of  Israel;  The  God  of  the 
whole  earth  shall  He  be  called. 

"  6.  For  the  Lord  hath  called  the"  as  a  woman  forsaken  and 
grieved  in  spirit,  and  a  wife  of  youth,  when  thou  wast  refused,  saith 
thy  God. 

"  7.  For  a  small  moment  have  I  forsaken  thee ;  but  with  great 
mercies  will  I  gather  thee. 

"  8.  In  a  little  wrath  I  hid  my  face  from  thee  for  a  moment ;  but 
with  everlasting  kindness  will  I  have  mercy  on  thee,  saith  the  Lord 
thy  Redeemer. 

"  9^  For  this  is  as  the  waters  of  Noah  unto  me  :  for  as  I  have 
sworn  that  the  waters  of  Noah  should  no  more  go  over  the  earth  ;  so 
have  I  sworn  that  I  would  not  be  wroth  with  thee,  nor  rebuke  thee. 

"  ID.  For  the  mountains  shall  depart,  and  the  hill  be  removed ; 
but  my  kindness  shall  not  depart  from  thee,  neither  shall  the  cove- 
nant of  my  peace  be  removed,  saith  the  Lord,  that  hath  mercy  on 
thee." 

Thought  I  :  "  Perhaps  I  opened  this  passage  this  time  because  I 
have  already  opened  at  it."  I  put  down  my  own  Bible  and  took  up 
the  one  that  lay  on  the  bureau,  which  belonged  to  the  hotel,  and  as  I 
opened  it,  1  closed  my  eyes  and  exclaimed  :  "  O  Beloved  Jesus, 
speak  to  me,  and  tell  me  that  it  is  not  all  an  illusion  ;  that  I  am 
Thine  forever  ;  that  I  am  Thy  spouse  ;  that  Thou  hast  taken  me  for 
Thine  own."  I  opened  the  Bible  which  I  had  never  opened  before, 
and  I  opened  at  the  very  same  chapter;  and  this  extraordinary  fact, 
instead  of  surprising  me,  and  filling  me  with  greater  joy,  made  my 
breast  as  calm  and  as  peaceful  as  a  troubled  soul  that  had  just  found 
a  shelter  in  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

A  myriad  of  thoughts  crowded  themselves  upon  me,  but  not  con- 
fusedly ;  for,  now,  everything  was  clear  that  related  to  the  jiast,  and 
1  could  see  that  God  had  had  His  designs  upon  me  from  the  hour  of 


Jf 


ll 


^ 


548 


"  GIVE   ME  THY   HEART. 


my  birth,  and  that  I  now  owed  this  moment  of  unspeakable  joy  to  a 
life  of  siiftering.  I  felt  that  each  sorrow,  each  disgrace,  each  misfor- 
tune that  .  had  writhed. under,  from  my  infancy,  had  been  so  many 
l)owerful  lev  s  to  raise  nie-to  my  God.  All  those  trials  which  1  had 
borne  up  under  through  faith,  appeared  to  me  now  I'ke  so  many 
supernatural  aids  to  conduct  my  exiled  heart  to  its  country  ;  and  as 
I  knelt  there,  enraptured,  pressing  my  crucifix  to  my  lips  and  then 
to  my  heart,  the  horizon  of  the  supernatural  world  seemed,  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  open  before  me  that  I  might  view  the  perspectives  of  eter- 
nity.    '; 

I  could  then  see  and  feel  the  fallacy  and  folly  of  all  earthly  attach- 
ments, and  that  nothing  was  worth  seeking  or  loving  but  God.  And 
as  my  earthly  loves,  and  my  earthly  hates  came  back  to  me,  what  a 
change  !  1  shouldered  at  the  very  thought  of  ever  becoming  the  Vis- 
countess Laferriere,  and  I  felt  like  throwing  myself  at  my  director's 
feet,  and  asking  his  pardon  for  my  foolish  anger,  and  begging  him  to 
accept  my  grateful  and  heartfelt  thanks. 

1  realized,  in  that  moment,  that  I  had  behaved  towards  God  since 
He  had  chosen  me,  just  as  Laferriere  had  done  with  me.  He  had 
given  me  everything  but  himself,  and  I  preferred  iiim  to  all  his  gifts. 
Nothing  that  he  could  offer  me,  except  himself,  could  ever  satisfy  me. 
And  so  had  I  been  with  God.  I  had  given  Him  everything  but  my 
heart ;  whereas.  He  preferred  that  to  all  my  sacrifices  and  to  all  my 
gifts. 

Much  as  I  had  dreaded  being  a  nun  but  an  hour  ago,  it  was 
now  the  only  thought  of  my  soul.  I  took  uj)  a  handkerchief  and 
bound  it  round  my  forehead,  and  then  threw  the  double  skirt  of  my 
dress  over  my  head  in  the  guise  of  a  veil,  to  see  what  kind  of  a  look- 
ing nun  I  would  make  ;  and  I  found  it  so  comically  unbecoming  that 
it  set  me  laughing. 

.A  few  days  after  I  had  been  received  as  a  G!;i;  ]  of  Mary,  one  of 
the  Children  of  Mary  introduced  me  to  a  Mr.  MIIIlt,  who,  she  told 
me,  would  finish  my  church  without  asking  any  profit  by  it,  aiv'  ;is  he 
was  rich,  she  was  sure  that  he  would  wait  until  I  could  colLi:i  tlic 
money  to  pay  him.  The  following  day,  which  was  the  19th  of  iVIaich, 
the  J''east  of  St.  Joseph,  I  went  up  to  my  farm  with  Mr.  Miller,  in 
order  to  make  an  agreement  about  the  finishing  of  my  church. 

While  at  my  house,  I  invoked  the  prayers  of  the  Ulessed  Virgin 
that  I  might  ever  be  faithful  to  the  great  grace  1  had  just  received, 


MY   DIRECTOR  DISTRUSTFUL. 


549 


and  that  I  might  never  doubt  of  my  vocation.  A  Uttle  Bible  lay  on  a 
prayer  desk ;  I  opened  it  without  asking  for  anything,  and  I  opened 
at  the  very  same  chapter  in  Isaiah  that  I  had  opened  at  twice  the 
previous  night. 


] 


) . 


CHAPTER  CXII. 

HARD  KNOCKS. THE    BIBLE  MV  PHYSICIAN. — "THE  CHURCH-MICE  " 

TRY  TO  DRIVE  ME  FROM  THE  HOUSE  OF  GOD. 

The  next  morning  I  repaired  early  to  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  in  1 7th  Street,  where  Father  Merrick  had  begun  to  give  a  re- 
treat to  the  Children  of  Mary.  I  was  most  anxious  to  see  my  director, 
expecting  that  he  would  receive  me  most  graciously,  when  I  told  him 
that  I  felt  sure  that  God  had  given  me  my  vocation,  and  that  1  longed 
to  be  a  nun  and  would  enter  a  convent  the  moment  my  church  should 
be  i)aid  for.  But,  to  my  astonishment,  he  received  me  as  though  he 
had  been  impatiently  awaiting  a  culi)rit  who  deserved  to  be  chastised, 
and  he  asked  me  in  the  most  brusque  manner,  what  I  meant  by  trying 
to  make  a  fool  of  him,  and  if  I  really  thought  I  was  going  to  make 
him  mydui)e.  I  undertook  to  relate  to  him  all  that  had  happened  to 
me  since  I  had  last  seen  him.  But  he  refused  to  listen  to  me,  and 
treated  me  in  every  way  as  if  I  was  an  impostor.  He  began  to  relate 
to  me  the  opinion  others  had  of  me,  and  said  that  my  conduct  jus- 
tified it.  Next  day,  when  I  intimated  to  him  my  desire  to  enter 
into  the  Sacred  Heart,  he  said  to  me :  "  Madam  Hardey  is  expected 
here  to-da}',  and  I  forbid  you  telling  her  one  word  about  yourself." 
That  was  a  cross ;  for  I  was  seized  with  an  almost  uncontrollable  im- 
pulse to  open  my  heart  to  Madam  Hardey  and  tell  her  that  I  wanted 
to  go  to  their  novitiate  at  Kenwood. 

On  the  following  day,  my  director  sent  for  me,  and  his  treatment 
towards  me  was  but  a  repetition  of  what  it  had  been  the  day  before, 
only,  if  anything,  worse.  This  time  he  made  me  suffer  ;  but  I  loved 
the  suffering,  and  told  him  so. 

Friday  morning  1  began  to  dread  a  renewal  of  the  scene  and  fell  to 
weeping  just  as  I  was  ready  to  go  out.  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  im- 
plored God  to  give  my  director  light,  so  that  he  would  see  that  I  was 


i:  rf 

111 


(, 


S50 


WORDS   OF   COMFORT. 


sincere  and  was  not  trying  to  deceive  him,  and  I  implored  God  to 
tell  me  what  to  do  if  he  still  persisted  in  not  believing  me.  I  opened 
the  Bible  for  my  answer,  and  the  following  words  gladdened  my  heart : 

"Thou  shalt  weep  no  more :  He  will  be  very  gracious  unto  thee  at 
the  voice  of  thy  cry;  when  He  shall  hear  it,  He  will  answer  thee. 

"  And  though  tlie  I^ord  give  you  the  bread  of  adversity,  and  the 
water  of  affliction,  yet  shall  not  thy  teachers  be  removed  into  a  corner 
any  more,  but  thine  eyes  shall  see  thy  teachers  : 

"And  thine  ears  shall  hear  a  word  behind  thee,  saying.  This  is 
the  way,  walk  ye  in  it,  when  ye  turn  to  the  right  hand,  and  when  ye 
turn  to  the  left."      (Is.  xxx.  19-21.) 

I  was  immediately  consoled.  I  marked  the  passage,  and  took  the 
Bible  with  me  to  the  church,  where  I  found  my  confessor  in  his  con- 
fessional. I  told  him  that  I  knew  he  would  be  more  gracious  to  nie, 
for  our  Lord  had  just  told  me  so.  Before  I  read  the  words  to  him, 
he  said  to  me  :  "  What  new  invention  is  this  ?  Let  me  hear  it."  I  then 
read  to  him  what  I  had  opened  at  in  the  Bible.  Said  he  :  "  I  do  not 
see  anything  very  wonderful  in  that."  "  But  I  do,"  I  replied  ;  "  and 
1  know  those  verses  refer  particularly  to  you."  Said  he  :  "I  am  not 
convinced  of  it."  "Because,"  said  I,  "you  don't  happen  to  see  your 
name,  age,  and  address  there,  you  are  not  willing  to  believe  that  that 
first  verse  refers  to  you  ;  but  [  am  not  afraid  of  you  now,  nor  do  1 
dread  to  come  near  you ;  for  I  know  that  you  will  be  kind  to  me." 
Said  he  :  "  How  do  you  know  ?  "  I  rei)lied  :  "  I  know  it  because  our 
Lord  has  just  promised  it  to  me,  and  I  know  that  He  can  md  will 
give  you  light."  Said  he  :  "  I  sujjpose  you  have  told  Madam  Hardoy 
all  about  it?"  "I  saw  her  yesterday,"  said  I;  "  I  just  approached 
her,  knelt  down  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  ran  away  from  her  as 
fast  as  I  could,  without  saying  a  single  word,  because  you  forb.ide  me 
to  tell  her." 

His  manner  at  once  changed  towards  me,  as  he  asked  if  I  woukl 
obey  him.  "  Certainly,"  1  replied,  "  for  1  believe  you  are  a  good 
man."  He  then  told  me  to  consult  Madam  Hardey,  as  she  was  a  lady 
of  vast  exi)erience  and  of  rare  charity. 

That  same  afternoon  1  was  with  Madam  Hardey  an  hour  and  a 
quarter.  I  opened  my  heart  to  her  with  as  much  confidence  as  1 
would  to  my  director.  When  I  had  fmished  she  gave  nje  a  few  en- 
couraging words,  told  me  not  to  pray  so  nuich  now,  but  to  go  to 
work,  and  advised  me  not  to  be  seen  so  often  at   the  Jesuit  church, 


NIBBLINGS   OF   CHURCH-MICE. 


551 


as  jjeople  were  passing  remarks  about  it.  That  made  me  sad  ;  for  I 
felt  that,  if  driven  out  of  the  basement  of  that  church,  I  would  be 
obliged  to  remain  shut  up  in  my  room. 

The  next  morning  I  wept  as  I  told  the  Father  what  Madam  Hardey 
had  said.  He  consoled  me  by  saying  :  "  Madam  Hardey  wishes  you 
to  avoid  giving  others  the  slightest  occasion  of  abusing  you." 

"  What  can  I  do  to  stop  them,"  said  I,  "  if  they  will  not  permit  me 
to  come  into  the  chapel  and  pray,  without  abusing  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  right ;  they  have  no  business  to  abuse  you  for  that ;  and  I 
give  you  permission  to  go  into  the  chapel  and  pray  whenever  you 
like."  "  It  is  but  granting  me.  Father,  a  privilege  that  is  extended 
to  every  beggar  that  walks  the  streets." 

God  had  thorouglily  detached  me  from  the  world  and  LaferriSre  on 
the  vigil  of  St.  Joseph's  feast ;  and  what  could  more  fully  justify  my 
indifference  for  the  world's  opinion  than  this;  that,  since  I  was  trying 
to  lead  a  perfect  life,  it  not  only  turned  its  back  upon  me,  but  would 
not  even  i)ermit  me  to  go  by  myself  into  a  chapel  and  pray,  without 
l)assing  some  uncharitable  remark,  such  as,  "  IVc  are  sure  she  has  a 
motive^''  or  some  other  etjuivalent  reflection. 

The  same  afternoon  that  I  opened  my  heart  to  Madam  Hardey,  I 
brought  the  few  ball-dresses  I  had  not  been  able  to  dispose  of  to  her, 
and  she  had  them  converted  into  vestments  for  my  church. 


CHAPTER  CXTH. 

"THE     BOARD     OF     GRACE"    SIT    ON    ME. — I    AM    TOLD     TO   WRITE    A 

BOOK. 

Mv  desire  to  enter  a  convent  increased  every  day ;  but  my  di- 
rector and  Madam  Hardey  both  said  they  did  not  see  that  I  had 
the  vocation,  and  neither  of  them  would  consent  to  it  until  they  had 
stronger  proofs. 

Hut  I  thought  that  C.od  had  given  me  my  vocation  on  the  i8th,  and 
I  was  so  anxious  to  take  the  veil  that  my  impatience  would  hardly 
brook  wailing  to  finish  my  church ;  and  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  my  motives  in  erecting  it  had  not  been  pure,  and  that  1  had 
always  sought  my  own  glory  in  its  completion  more  than  the  glory 
of  God. 


''• '      i 


i 


I 


552 


CHURCH-MICE   IN   COUNCIL. 


I  went  to  the  French  Cliurch  to  implore  God  to  make  His  will 
known  to  me,  whether  I  ought  to  finish  the  little  church  before  I 
entered  a  convent  or  not.  After  praying  for  a  long  while,  without 
being  able  to  decide  what  I  should  do,  I  determined  to  go  home  and 
resort  to  the  Bible ;  which  I  no  sooner  thought  of,  than  1  went  into 
the  parsonage  and  borrowed  a  French  Bible  of  Fatlier  Aubril.  It 
was  the  first  Catholic  Bible  I  had  ever  had  in  my  hands.  1  took  it 
into  the  church,  and  knelt  down  before  the  altar  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin ;  when  I  was  in  the  act  of  opening  it,  I  implored  God  to  let 
me  know  if  it  was  His  will  that  I  should  keep  on  and  finish  my 
church,  or  go  innnediately  into  a  convent.  I  then  opened  the 
Bible  and  read  :  (i  Paral.  xxii.) 

"  19.  Now  set  your  heart  and  your  soul  to  seek  the  Lord  your 
God;  arise  therefore,  and  build  yea  sanctuary  of  the  Lord  (iod, 
to  bring  the  ark  of  the  covenant  of  the  Lord,  and  the  holy  vessels 
of  God,  into  the  house  that  is  to  be  built  to  the  name  of  die 
Led." 

1  went  immediately  to  my  director  to  tell  him  how  I  had  prayed, 
and  for  what  I  had  prayed,  and  the  answer  God  had  given  me. 

He  did  not  appear  to  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  what  I  said, 
but  rather  seemed  impatient  for  me  to  finish,  that  I  might  hear  what 
he  had  to  say. 

His  impatience  was  caused  by  the  officious  interference  of  some 
of  those  devotees,  who  form,  as  it  were,  "  a  Board  of  Grace,"  without 
whose  permission  it  is  not  lawful  for  a  poor  soul  even  to  aspire  to 
Heaven,  and  who  often  deem  it  their  duty  "  to  sit  "  on  a  canditate  for 
admission  to  the  sacraments.  When  he  discovered  that  the  repre- 
sentations of  "  the   Board  of  Grace  "   were  false,  he   said  : — 

"  How  you  are  persecuted  !  i  now  believe  that  you  are  sincere, 
and  that  you  have  given  your  heart  to  God.  At  the  same  time  I  will 
not  continue  to  direct  you  without  the  consent  of  my  su[)erior. 
To-morrow  morning  you  must  make  a  general  confession  to  Father 
Bapst,  and  show  him  those  passages  of  Scripture.  If  he  says  it  is 
God's  work,  and  tells  me  to  continue  to  direct  you,  the  whole  world 
may  go  against  you,  but  I  will  stand  by  you,  just  as  long  as  I  am 
convinced  that  you  are  trying  to  do  right." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  su|)posing  your  sujjcrior  tells  me  to  go  to  some- 
body else  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know :  whether  I  ought  to  continue  to 


ake  His  will 
irch  before  I 
t'hile,  without 
go  home  and 

1  went  into 
r  Aiibril.     It 

.     1  took  it 

the  Blessed 
d  God  to  let 
id  finish   my 

opened   tiie 

e  Lord  your 
e  I,ord  (Jod, 
;  holy  vessels 
lame   of    the 

had  prayed, 
en  me. 

what  I  said, 
jht  hear  what 

Mice  of  some 
ice,"  without 
to  aspire  to 
canditate  for 
at  the  repre- 
id:— 

are  sincere, 
le  time  I  will 
ny  superior. 
m  to  I'"atlier 
he  says  it  is 
whole  world 
)ng  as  I   am 

go  to  some- 
continue  to 


FATHER   BAPST. 


553 


direct  you  or  no  I.  Whatever  he  decides  will  be  for  the  best.  And  I 
want  you  to  pay  particular  attention  to  what  he  says,  for  whatever  he 
tells  you  to  do  will  be  for  your  eternal  good.  He  is  a  holy  man,  and 
you  must  listen  to  him  as  though  God  Himself  were  speaking  to  you." 

The  next  morning  I  came  to  see  Father  Bapst,  and  did  as  1  had 
been  told.  He  listened  to  me  attentively.  When  I  came  to  the  even- 
ing of  the  i8th  when  I  entered  my  bedroom  and  felt  as  if  my  cruci- 
fix came  towards  me,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  said  :  "  Poor 
child  !  "  After  I  had  finished  I  told  him  to  decide  and  tell  me  what 
to  do. 

"  I  believe  God  has  called  you,"  said  he,  "  to  build  that  church.  What 
His  designs  are  I  cannot  tell,  but  the  first  thing  that  you  must  do  is 
to  finish  it.  I  do  not  see  that  you  have  a  vocation.  You  must  not 
enter  a  convent  yet  ;  for  you  have  not  yet  received  a  definite  vocation. 
But  you  can  serve  God  out  of  a  convent  just  as  well  as  you  can  in  one. 
God  has  His  designs  upon  you — I  am  convinced  of  that.  He  will  make 
known  to  you  what  they  are  when  the  proper  lime  comes.  For  the 
l)resent  go  ahead  and  finish  your  church,  and  then  we  will  see. 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  1  know  of  no  one  who  can  direct  you  better 
than  Father  Merrick.  He  has  his  defects :  he  is  quick-tempered, 
easily  roused  :  you  will  often  have  to  bear  with  a  great  deal  from 
him  ;  but  you  will  always  find  him  true.''  I  went  into  church  at 
three  o'clock,  and  took  the  little  Catholic  Bible  with  me  that  1  had 
borrowed  of  Father  Aubril.  While  the  Fathers  recited  the  tencbrce 
(for  it  was  in  Holy  ^V'eek),  I  implored  our  Lord  to  settle  my  mind  in 
respect  to  entering  the  novitiate  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
at  Kenwood  ;  for  1  was  not  willing  to  abide  either  by  the  decision 
of  Madam  Hardey,  Father  Bapst,  or  my  director.  I  was  more  satis- 
fied that  1  had  received  my  vocation  than  I  was  of  anything  else. 
I  was  so  certain  of  it  that  no  one  on  earth  could  have  convinced  me 
of  the  contrary.  I  implored  God  not  to  abandon  me,  but  to  tell  me 
something  that  would  give  light  to  my  director  and  to  his  superior. 

I  then  knelt  down  and  tried  to  completely  annihilate  my  own  will 
before  the  will  of  (iod.  Although  I  felt  that  to  live  in  the  world  now 
would  be  a  continual  martyrdom,  yet  I  promised  that,  if  it  was  His 
will,  I  would  not  murmur,  but  try  in  all  things  to  submit  my  will  to 
His.  I  opened  the  Bible  at  these  words,  "Tant  que  tu  vis  et  que  tu 
respire,  ne  t'assujettis  a  personne"  (So  long  as  thou  livest  and  hast 
breath,  subject  thyself  to  no  one).  (Eccles.  xxxiii.  21.) 
'  24 


\a. 


554 


ADIEU   TO   LAFERRIERE. 


I  burst  into  tears,  closed  the  book,  and  said,  "  Then  tell  me,  Lord, 
what  I  am  to  do." 

I  opened  the  Bible  again,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  these  words  :  "  Con- 
serve— toi  I'autorite  dans  toutes  tes  oeuvres.  N'imprime  point  de  tache 
a  ta  gloire  !  An  jour  de  la  fin  des  jours  de  ta  vie,  et  au  temps  de  la 
mort  distribue  ton  heritage"  (In  all  thy  works  keep  to  thyself  authority. 
I,et  no  stain  sully  thy  glory.  At  the  day  when  thou  shalt  end  the  days 
of  tliy  life  and  at  the  time  of  thy  decease  distribute  thy  property). 

I  then  discovered  that  I  had  opened  both  times  at  the  same  chap- 
ter ;  and  as  soon  as  I  read  those  last  words  I  received  a  light,  and  my 
mind  was  at  rest ;  for  it  seemed  that  God  had  made  known  to  me 
His  will  that  I  should  found  some  work  for  His  glory. 

He  did  not  make  known  to  me  then  what  the  object  of  my  mission 
would  be. 

After  tenebrcB  I  went  to  see  the  Father,  and  showed  him  what  I 
had  turned  to,  and  how  I  knew  that  God  had  called  me  to  found  a 
religious  work. 

Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  always  had  that  impression,  and  that 
he  could  say  so  to  me  now,  as  I  had  mentioned  it  myself.  He  did 
not  believe  that  it  was  God's  will  that  I  should  go  to  Kenwood,  but 
that  He  had  other  designs  upon  me.  But  neither  of  us  could  surmise 
what  the  nature  of  my  work  might  be. 

I  went  down  town,  and  Mr.  Dorr  Russell  got  Mr.  Butler  to  lend 
me  four  thousand  dollars  more.  When  1  got  home  I  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  Laferriere,  telling  him  that  I  was  perfectly  detached  from 
him,  and  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  me  to  marry  him  ;  that  I 
was  going  to  be  a  religious.  I  wrote  him  with  the  same  sentiments 
with  which  I  would  have  written  to  a  friend  for  whom  I  cherished  the 
most  profound  gratitude  and  esteem,  but  nothing  more.  He  never 
answered  the  letter,  which,  thank  CJod,  has  never  caused  me  a  pang 
or  a  single  tear. 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  I  awoke,  I  began  to  speak  to  our 
Lord  and  ask  Him  how  I  should  raise  the  money  to  found  my  work, 
and  how  I  should  ever  even  get  the  money  to  pay  my  debts.  I  had 
hardly  asked  the  question  when  I  heard  an  interior  voice  say  :  "  Write 
a  book  ;  write  a  history  of  your  life  ;  that  will  procure  you  money  to 
pay  your  debts  and  to  found  your  work."  I  buried  my  face  in  my 
pillow  for  shame,  and  inwardly  cried  out :  "  O  beloved  Saviour,  do 
not  ask  that  of  me  !  for  all  would  point  their  finger  at  me."     Then 


fell  me,  Lord, 

^'ords  :  "  Con- 
point  de  taclie 
III  tem])s  de  Ui 
[Self  authority. 
It  end  the  days 
broijcrty). 
le  same  chap, 
light,  and  my 
:no\vn   to  me 

)f  niy  mission 

d  him  what  I 
e  to  found  a 

iion,  and  that 
self.  He  did 
Cenwood,  but 
could  surmise 

utler  to  lend 

wrote  a  lono- 

etachcd  from 

'  him  ;  that  I 

le  sentiments 

cherished  the 

He  never 

me  a  pang 

5peak  to  our 
id  my  work, 
ibts.  I  liad 
iay  :  "Write 
XI  money  to 
face  in  my 
Saviour,  do 
'le."     Then 


I  SHRINK    FROM  WRITING   A   BOOK. 


555 


I  distinctly  heard  an  interior  voice  speak  to  me  reproachfully  such 
words  as  these  :  "  This  is  your  detachment  from  the  world ;  jou  see 
that  you  still  love  the  world  more  than  me." 

A. fearful  struggle  took  place  within  me  between  nature  and  grace. 
But  grace  at  last  triumphed,  and  I  exclaimed  :  "  1  will,  Lord,  I  will." 
But  1  luid  no  sooner  consented  than  I  instantly  regretted  it,  and  1 
began  to  excuse  myself  on  account  of  my  ignorance,  and  I  said ; 
"Thou  knowest.  Lord,  that  I  have  never  studied,  except  to  show 
off ;  how  can  I  write  a  book?"  The  same  interior  voice  rc[)lied : 
"  You  do  not  require  to  be  a  scholar  to  speak  the  truth  ;  and  that  is 
all  that  Clod  asks  of  you." 

I  instantly  arose,  determined  to  make  the  sacrifice.  I  hastened 
to  the  college  to  tell  my  director  the  new  revelation  God  had  just 
made  to  me.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied  :  "  I  never 
could  tell  you  to  do  that.  Do  not  ask  me  to  sanction  your  unfolding 
the  story  of  your  life  to  the  whole  world."  Said  I  :  "You  tell  me 
that  to  spare  myself  I  should  disobey  God?"  "  I  will  call  Father 
Bapst,"  said  he,  "for  I  shall  not  take  upon  myself  such  responsibility." 
He  called  Father  Bapst,  who,  the  moment  I  told  him  the  revelation 
I  had  had  that  morning,  without  the  slightest  hesitation  replied  :  "  Yes, 
write  a  book  ;  that  is  what  you  should  do  ;  write  a  book."  I  then 
told  him  what  Father  Merrick  had  just  said.  "  Never  mind  what 
the  world  will  say  or  do  to  you,"  he  answered  ;  "  God  will  take  care 
of  all  that.  It  seems  clear  to  me  that  it  is  your  duty  to  write  a  book  ; 
I  tell  you  to  write  it."     With  those  words  he  left  me. 

When  I  repeated  to  Father  Merrick  what  his  sui)erior  had  said,  he 
could  hardly  believe  me.  "Well,"  said  he,  "do  as  he  says;  but 
remember  that  he  takes  all  the  responsibility.  I  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  having  you  expose  your  past  history  to  the  world.  I  can- 
not believe  that  God  demands  such  a  sacrifice  of  you.  I  will  not 
presume  to  decide  against  my  superior  ;  but  you  and  he  both  must 
remember  that  he,  and  not  L  told  you  to  write  it." 

"  Many  people  have  asked  me,"  he  then  added,  "  if  you  have  ever 
been  really  married.  Many  doubt  it,  and  some  state  positively  that 
you  never  were.  Can  you  give  me  some  positive  proof,  besides 
your  word,  that  you  were  married  ?  "  That  same  day  I  brought  him 
my  marriage  certificate. 

I  also  showed  him  the  certificate  which  had  been  forwarded  to  me 
from  New    York  to   France  at  the  time   I  was  getting  my   papers 


I    :' 


\i'' 


\  ' 


556 


EASTER  JOYS. 


together  to  comply  with  the  exigencies  of  the  French  law,  when  I 
expected  to  marry  the  Count  tie  V . 

This  certificate  is  signed  by  witnesses  who  were  present  at  my 
marriage,  and  it  bears  the  signature  and  seal  of  the  French  consul, 
in  New  York,  because  these  witnesses  were  obliged  to  testify,  before 
the  French  consul,  that  they  were  present  at  my  marriage  ;  otherwise 
the  certificate  would  not  have  been  recognized  as  authentic  by  the 
French  laws. 

When  I  handed  these  certificates  to  the  Father,  he  appeared  very 
much  pleased  ;  for  he  saw  that  there  could  be  no  deception  or  fraud 
about  them  ;  md  he  wished  that  I  could  prove  to  everybody  as 
easily  that  all  the  other  things  my  enemies  accused  me  of  were  false. 

The  next  morning  was  Easter,  and  as  I  arose  that  Easter  morn- 
ing, I  felt  that  "  the  heart  too  has  its  Easter,  when  the  stone  is 
rolled  away,"  for  no  other  words  could  express  the  joy  and  peace  of 
my  soul.  I  was  perfectly  happy  ;  for,  in  possessing  (lod,  I  felt  that 
1  possessed  everything.  I  would  not  have  exchanged  the  peace  and 
joy,  which  reigned  in  my  soul  that  Easter  morning,  for  the  entire 
universe.  The  universe  is,  after  all,  but  a  bubble  compared  with  the 
priceless  value  of  a  soul  filled  with  Clod.  I  had  often  heard  and 
read  descriptions  of  happy  death-bed  scenes,  when  the  soul  longed  to 
burst  its  earthly  chains,  and  I  have  ridiculed,  in  my  heart,  the  trans- 
ports of  indescribable  joy,  which  the  author  would  fain  depict.  But 
now  those  very  descriptions  seemed  to  me  but  faint  conceptions  of 
the  ecstatic  joy  that  a  soul  feels  when  it  reposes  in  God,  No  tongue 
can  express  it,  no  pen  can  describe  it  :  it  is  only  given  to  souls  who 
possess  it  to  know  what  it  is. 


law,  when  I 


AUNT  HULDAIi  AND   IIKR   HEIRS. 


557 


|)iX'sent  at  my 
(Mcnch  consul, 

testify,  before 
|ge  ;  otherwise 

thentic  by  the 

appeared  very 
ption  or  fraud 
everybody  as 
of  were  false. 
Easter  morn- 
I  the  stone  is 
and  peace  of 
od,  I  felt  that 
the  peace  and 
for  the  entire 
|)ared  with  the 
en  heard  and 
soul  longed  to 
•art,  the  trans- 
depict.     ]}iit 
onceptions  of 
.     No  tongue 
I  to  souls  who 


CHAPTER  CXIV. 

SHADOWS    OF   THE    PAST. — DISAPPOINTMENT. 

On  the  ist  of  April,  1872,  I  returned  to  the  country.  I  found 
Betsy  Dot  still  plying  at  her  loom,  while  Aunt  Huldah  was  still  the 
pet  of  her  heirs.  Aunt  Mercy  had  died,  and  lies  beside  my  Uncle 
Horace  down  in  the  Valley. 

One  day  I  was  passing  by  my  Aunt  Huldah' s,  and  thought  I  would 
call,  for  1  had  heard  that  she  was  ill. 

I  found  everything  breathlessly  still  around  the  house,  and  as  soon 
as  I  entered  the  corridor,  I  was  struck  with  remorse  for  having 
neglected  her  during  her  last  illness.  I  was  sure  that  she  was  dead, 
for  the  lirst  thing  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  a  piece  of  white  muslin 
stretched  over  the  looking-giass.  I  went  into  her  room  ;  no  one  was 
there.  The  windows  were  wide  open,  and  the  bed-clothes  were  hang- 
ing over  a  chair,  while  the  bed  was  spread  out  to  air.  I  was  certain 
then  that  it  was  all  over.  I  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  knocked  very 
gently.  To  my  surprise,  a  voice  cried  out  "  come  in,"  as  vigorously 
as  1  had  ever  heard  it  years  before.  I  quickly  opened  the  door. 
There  sat  Aunt  Huldah  by  the  kitchen  window  smoking  her  pii)e, 
and  looking  about  as  well  as  I  had  ever  seen  her  in  my  life. 

"  What ! "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  entered  the  room,  "  are  you  not  dead 
yet  ?  I  was  sure  that  you  were  dead  when  I  found  everything  look- 
ing as  it  usually  does  when  a  corpse  has  just  stepped  out."  "  No,  in- 
deed," Aunt  Huldah  replied,  "  1  am  nut  dead  yet  by  a  good  deal.  I 
am  still  living  and  doing  well." 

"  I  see  you  are,"  said  I,  "  for  you  are  teaching  your  heirs  patience 
and  resignation,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  giving  them  a  pretty 
long  lesson.  'J'hey  must  think  that  Death  has  forgotten  you."  To 
which  remark  one  of  her  heirs  who  was  present  laughingly  nodded 
an  assent. 

The  piece  of  muslin  had  been  stretched  over  the  glass  simply  to 
keep  the  flies  from  injuring  the  mahogany  frame. 

I  know  several  intelligent,  enterprising  young  men  for  whom  the 


558 


THE   CHAPKL   AND   ALTAR-PIECE. 


prospect  of  receiving  a  few  hundred  dollars  from  Aunt  ITuldah,  when 
she  should  die,  has  l)een  the  curse  of  their  whole  lives.  They  arc 
now  middle-aged,  poor,  and  dissii)ated,  having  wasted  the  best  years 
of  their  lives  waiting  for  that  old  woman's  death. 

As  soon  as  I  returned  to  the  country  1  began  to  write  this  book, 
and  to  suiKMintend  the  completion  of  my  little  church. 

When  it  was  nearly  linished  1  went  to  New  York  to  see  His  (Irace 
the  Archbishop,  whom  I  had  not  visited  for  nearly  a  year. 

His  Grace  told  me  that  Father  Tandy  had  been  to  see  him,  and 
•whether  he  (the  Archbishop)  had  misunderstootl  him  or  not  last  fall, 
or  whether  Father  'I'andy  had  changed  his  mind,  he  could  not  tell ; 
but  the  fact  was,  that  he  had  called  lately  to  say  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  take  charge  of  the  new  chapel.  Said  I  :  "  He  has  an  excellent 
reason  for  not  wishing  to  take  charge  of  the  new  chapel ;  for  he  knows 
that  he  cannot  take  charge  of  it,  because  I  won't  let  him."  And  I 
frankly  told  His  Grace  how  Father  Tandy  had  behaved  towards  me, 
in  carrying  oft"  my  choir.  I  did  it  without  any  malice,  but  1  told  him 
the  simple  truth.  "  Well,"  said  th  \rchbishop,  "as  he  does  not 
wish  to  take  charge  of  it,  and  you  lo  not  wish  to  have  him,  there  is 
an  end  to  the  matter." 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  Said  he  :  «'  You  know  that 
you  are  out  of  my  diocese.'  "  Yes,"  said  I,  "but  you  wrote  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Corcelles,  that  when  the  needs  became  more  pressing  you 
■would  take  pleasure  in  doing  everything  in  your  power  to  assist  me." 
I  begged  him  to  appoint  a  day  when  he  would  come  up  and  say 
Mass  in  the  church  himself.  He  agreed  to  come  on  the  lyth  of 
July,  but  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  could  not  dedicate  it  or  bless 
it  until  it  had  become  ecclesiastical  proi)erty.  I  then  told  him  of  my 
desire  of  becoming  a  religious,  and  of  dedicating  myself  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  some  religious  work  after  I  had  finished  my  book. 

Madam  Hardey  had  made  for  me  several  sets  of  vestments,  and 
presented  me  with  several  sets  of  altar  linen.  At  Tiffany's  I  got  a 
a  present  of  a  beautiful  chalice.  But  the  most  beautiful  ornament 
that  decorates  the  little  church,  is  the  exquisite  gift  of  Mr.  D.  JVf. 
Carter,  the  artist,  an  original  work,  made  expressly  for  my  church. 
It  is  a  large  oil  painting,  representing  St.  Genevieve  at  prayer  in  the 
open  fields,  in  the  garb  of  a  shepherdess,  and  our  Lord  ajjpears  in 
the  firmament  with  both  hands  extended,  in  the  act  of  blessing  her 
and  the  Pantheon,  whose  dome  is  dimly  traced  in  the  distance.      It 


THE   AKCIlinSlIOl'   DECLINES. 


559 


'uldali,  when 
'lliey  are 
e  best  years 

tin's  book, 

His  (Jrace 

e  him,  and 
"t  last  fall, 
Id  not  tell  ; 
lid  not  wish 
n  excellent 
or  he  knows 
And  1 
owards  nie, 
:  1  told  him 
e  does  not 
111,  there  is 

know  that 
>te  to  Mon- 
■essing  yon 
assist  me." 
'P  and  say 
L'  17th  of 
'  it  or  bless 
It  HI  of  my 
tlie  estab- 
3k. 

lents,  and 
5  I  got  a 
ornament 
[r.  D.  M. 
y  church, 
'er  in  the 
jpears  in 
!sing  her 
ice.      It 


is  a  beautiful  i)ainting,  and  will  long  commemorate  the  artist's 
genius  and  the  generous  impulse  that  prompted  him  to  i)resent  it  to 
me. 

I  had  imported  all  the  interior  decorations,  such  as  the  coloring  of 
the  walls,  the  windows,  the  statuary,  and  the  way  of  the  cross. 

I  called  at  Archbishoi)  McCloskey's  to  get  the  chalice  which  I  had 
left  there  to  be  consecrated.  The  girl  who  came  to  the  door  handed 
me  the  following  note  : 

"  Archbishop  McCloskey  presents  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Eckel, 
and  begs  to  say  that  he  will  be  obliged  to  leave  home  on  affairs  of 
his  diocese  on  the  13th  of  July,  to  be  absent  until  the  middle  of 
August.  Meantime,  Mrs.  Eckel  can  make  such  arrangements  with 
the  pastor  of  Amenia,  to  whom  I5ishop  McFarland  has  granted  per- 
mission to  attend  the  new  chapel,  for  having  it  opened  for  the  cele- 
bration of  Mass,  as  may  be  most  agreeable  and  convenient  to  both 
])arties.  The  Archbishop  hopes  to  have  the  pleasure  of  visiting  the 
jilace  later  in  the  season,  not,  however,  for  any  public  or  private 
functions  in  the  church. 
"  New  Yokk,  June  23,  1872." 

I  went  immediately  to  my  room  at  the  hotel,  threw  myself  on  ilie 
bed,  and  we[)t,  on  account  of  the  disappointment.  For  1  had  got 
everything  beautifully  arranged,  and  I  longed  to  have  His  Grace  see 
how  much  I  had  already  accomplished.  I  believed  he  would  be 
gratified.  My  heart  had  long  been  set  upon  his  saying  the  first  Mass 
that  would  be  celebrated  on  those  hills. 

After  weeping  for  at  least  two  hours,  I  went  to  see  Father  Merrick 
to  show  him  His  Grace's  letter.  Said  the  Father  :  "  It  is  evident  that 
the  Archbishop  does  not  care  to  go  up  there  and  say  the  tirst  Mass, 
particularly  as  you  and  Father  Tandy  do  not  agree.  You  know  that 
it  is  the  duty  of  a  bishop  to  always  support  his  priest ;  and  the  idea  of 
your  putting  ui)  a  church,  and  running  in  opposition  to  Father  Tandy 
does  not  suit  him  ;  I  am  sure  of  it."  Father  Merrick  told  me  that  he 
himself  could  not  come,  as  he  was  going  away  to  give  a  mission. 
"  But,"  said  he,  "  I  know  of  one  man  who  will  not  abandon  you. 
Did  not  Father  Bapst  tell  you  to  go  on  and  finish  your  church?" 
Said  I :  "  Yes  ;  but  what  if  he  did  ?  His  Grace  told  me  to  go  ahead, 
too,  and  gave  me  a  hundred  dollars.     Besides,  I  do  not  believe  that 


;  I 


I 


560 


FATHER   BAPST  CONSENTS. 


Father  Bapst  will  come  when  he  sees  that  His  Grace  has  de- 
clined." 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  "yon  don't  know  the  man:  he  is  the  last 
man  to  abandon  a  person  in  tronble."  The  Father  sent  for  Father 
Bapst.  As  soon  as  Father  Bapst  read  His  Grace's  letter,  and  I  told 
him  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  treat  with  Father  Tandy,  he 
said  :  "  I  am  very  sorry,  on  your  account,  that  His  Grace  cannot  go  ; 
for  I  know  you  have  counted  upon  it,  and  it  would  always  be  a  great 
satisfaction  for  you  that  he  had  said  the  first  Mass  in  your  little 
church.  I  am  very  busy ;  but,  sooner  than  the  whole  thing  shall 
fall  through  after  all  your  efforts,  I  will  go  myself.  But  you  must  go 
and  see  His  Grace,  and  ask  his  permission." 

Father  Merrick  then  introduced  me  to  the  Rector,  Rev.  Father 
Hudon,  who  sympathized  with  me  on  account  of  my  disappointment, 
and  oflfored  to  render  me  any  assistance  that  lay  in  his  power.  I 
went  to  see  the  Archbishop,  who  was  pleased  that  Father  Bapst  was 
going  to  say  Mass  for  me.  I  did  not  refer  to  my  disappointment ;  and 
the  interview  I  had  with  His  Grace  gave  me  great  satisfaction,  for  I 
could  plainly  see  that  I  had  his  best  wishes  and  that  he  desired  me 
to  succeed. 


s 
>< 

s 

o 
c 
•z 
H 
> 


X 
o 
S 
pj 


C'lAPTER  CXV. 

THK    BIBLE    CHANGES    DISAPPOINTMENT    INTO    HOPE. 

The  Archbishop  had  named  Wednesday,  the  17th  of  July,  as  the 
day  that  he  thought  he  would  be  able  to  come  and  open  my  church. 
It  was  in  the  harvest  time ;  a  great  many  laborers  would  be  prevented 
from  attending  services,  if  it  was  on  a  week-day.  Father  Bapst  pre- 
ferred to  have  the  church  opened  on  Sunday.  So  he  appointed  Sun- 
day, the  2 1  St  of  July. 

The  next  evening,  after  I  returned  home,  I  went  up  to  the  church, 
feeling  disheartened  and  discouraged.  Everything  I  saw  reminded 
me  how  much  I  had  set  my  heart  on  His  Grace  being  there.  I  was 
so  low-spirited  at  my  disappointment,  that  it  seemed  as  though  I  car- 
ried an  iron  weight  within  me  instead  of  a  heart. 

I  began  imploring  our  Lord  to  say  something  to  me  that  would 


race  has   de- 

le  is  the  last 

nt  for  Father 

er,  and  I  told 

er  Tandy,  he 

e  cannot  go ; 

lys  be  a  great 

in  your  little 

e  thing  shall 

you  nnist  go 

Rev.  Father 
appointment, 
is  power.  1 
er  Bapst  was 
ntment ;  and 
faction,  for  I 
e  desired  me 


PE. 

July,  as  the 
I  my  church, 
le  prevented 
r  Uajjst  pre- 
)ointed  Sun- 

the  church, 
w  reminded 
ere.  I  was 
lough  I  ear- 


that  would 


cheer  and 

and  knelt 

pity  on  me, 

"  In  the  I 

came  the  \v 

1  was  tra 

those  word 

for  it  was  a 

cheer,  thai 

2ist  and  nc 

Saturday 

ing  the  arri 

the  disting 

Kapst,  whc 

Then  I  sa) 

two  Miss  A 

After  vf 

inquired  i 

I rephed  ; 

to  look  at 

them  that 

the  hills. 

expressior 

an  appro  V 

little  chui 

God  must 

you  never 

of  it  :  I  c 

did  not  1 

Catholic  : 

I :  "  Wail 

ing  than 

On  leavii 

had  thro\ 

tine  or  a 

afraid  th; 

see  very 

I  assu 

port  him 


;l 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  GREAT  DAY. 


561 


cheer  and  gladden  me.  I  took  my  I'ible,  which  lay  in  the  sacristy, 
and  knelt  in  front  of  the  altar,  and  as  I  opened  it  ''  said  :  "  Take 
pity  on  nie,  Lord."     The  first  verse  I  saw  was  the  following : 

"  In  the  seventh  month,  in  the  one-and-twentieth  day  of  the  month, 
came  the  word  of  the  Lord."     (Haggai  ii.  i.) 

1  was  transported  with  joy,  not  so  much  from  having  opened  at 
those  words,  as  from  the  effect  of  the  light  that  accompanied  diem  ; 
for  it  was  as  though  God  had  spoken  to  me  and  bade  me  be  of  good 
cheer,  that  it  was  His  will  that  the  first  Mass  should  be  said  on  the 
2 1st  and  not  on  the  17th. 

Saturday  at  noon  found  me  at  Wassaic  station,  with  carriages  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  train.  The  first  ^lerson  T  saw  alight  was  Berge, 
the  distinguished  organist  of  St.  Xavier's  Church.  Then  came  Father 
Kapst,  who  was  followed  by  Father  McDonnell  and  Brother  Letique. 
Then  I  saw  Berge  assist  two  ladies  to  get  off  the  train  ;  they  were  the 
two  Miss  Werneckes,  who  were  to  assist  in  the  singing. 

After  we  had  been  a  few  minutes  on  the  road,  one  of  the  ladies 
inquired  if  there  was  a  village  lying  beyond  those  hills.  "  Oh,  no," 
I  replied  ;  "  the  higher  you  go  up,  the  wilder  it  is."  Tliey  all  began 
to  look  at  each  other  with  a  sort  of  concern,  while  I  kept  assuring 
them  that  they  would  all  be  pleased  when  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  hills.  As  soon  as  Father  Bapst  entered  the  church,  the  whole 
expression  of  his  face  brightened.  Turning  towards  me,  he  gave  me 
an  approving  smile,  and  shortly  afterwards,  said  :  "  It  is  a  splendid 
little  church.  My  heart  was  lifted  up  the  moment  I  entered  it. 
God  must  have  inspired  yoa  ;  and  God  must  have  helped  you,  for 
you  never  could  have  done  all  this  alone.  But  I  do  not  see  the  utility 
of  it :  I  counted  the  houses  along  the  way,  and  I  am  certain  that  we 
did  not  pass  twenty,  and  you  tell  me  that  very  few  of  them  are 
Catholic  families.  Where  is  your  congregation  coming  from  ?"  Said 
I :  "  Wait  until  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  will  see  more  people  com- 
ing than  can  get  into  the  church."  He  shook  his  head  doubtingly. 
On  leaving  the  church  to  return  to  the  house,  he  said  to  me,  after  he 
had  thrown  a  glance  over  the  hills  :  "  This  might  please  a  Benedic- 
tine or  a  Carthusian,  but  it  never  would  a  Jesuit.  My  child,  1  am 
afraid  that  you  will  be  disappointed,  and  to-morrow  morning  you  will 
see  very  few  people  here." 

1  assured  him  that  if  I  had  a  priest  the  congregation  would  suj)- 
port  him.     We  then  sat  down  to  arrange  the  progranune  for  the  next 


5 

i 


u 


$62 


MORNING   SACRIFICE. 


day.  Father  T?apst  took  out  a  pencil  and  piece  of  paper  as  thougli 
he  were  going  to  make  a  minute.  "  Now  tell  me,  my  child,"  said 
he,  "  how  much  these  good  people  have  aided  you ;  they  will  exi)ect: 
me  to  refer  to  their  offerings  to-morrow  when  I  address  them." 
•'  My  dear  Father,"  I  rei)lied,  "  that  story  is  very  socin  told  ;  for  no 
one  around  here  has  ever  given  me  a  cent.  The  inhabitants  of 
Connecticut  declared  tha.;  they  could  not  help  me  because  they  were 
too  poor  ;  and  those  in  New  York  State  declared  that  they  ivoiild 
not  assist  me,  because  I  was  across  the  line."  The  Father  put  aside 
his  paper  and  pencil,  with  an  air  as  though  he  was  more  than  ever 
convinced  that  this  was  no  place  for  a  Jesuit. 


o 
o 
a 

r 
> 


CHAPTER   CXVI. 


ST.    GENEVlfeVE'S    CHAPEL. 


o 


The  2ist  of  July,  1872,  dawned  brightly  on  my  mountain  home; 
and  that  woodland  scene  which  lies  in  front  of  my  cottage  door  ap- 
peared to  me,  that  Sunday  morning,  like  a  vast  altar  dressed  by  the 
hands  of  tlie  Creator,  Nor  was  sweet  incense  wanting  for  the  morn- 
ing sacrifice  ;  for  the  shrubs  and  wild  ilowers  exhaled  the  dewy  fra- 
grance of  their  hearts  to  greet  the  first  beams  of  sunlight,  which  seemed 
to  my  joyous  spirit  like  the  smile  of  Ciod. 

I  stood  looking  towards  the  spot  where  I  had  stood  years  ago, 
when  my  guilty  heart  was  moved  by  a  hymn  sung  by  a  child,  ami 
where  my  soul  for  an  instant  had  been  enabled  to  soar  above  the 
mists  of  doubt,  and  had  raised  itself  to  God ;  and,  behold  !  there  was 
the  church  that  once  rose  in  my  mind.  It  was  but  a  vague  fancy 
then,  but  now  it  stood  before  me  a  beautiful  reality  ;  and  as  I  gazed 
ui)on  its  spire,  and  its  cross  that  glittered  In  the  sun,  it  appearetl  to 
me  like  a  sacred  diadem  that  God  Himself  had  placed  on  the  brow 
of  that  hill. 

When  I  gazed  upon  the  landscape,  it  seemed  as  though  every  rock, 
every  tree,  and  every  hill-top  spoke  to  me  of  the  past :  but  when  I 
would  turn  to  look  at  the  church,  its  cross  seemed  to  si)cak  to  my 
soul,  and  say  to  it  that  by  Faith  it  was  the  betrothed,  and  by  Hope 
and  Charity  the  spouse  of  Him  to  whom  all  nature  pays  homage  and 
adoration.  .  - 


7i 

o 
H 
o 


n 
o 


I 


P 


r  as  though 
child."  said 
will  expect: 
ess  them." 
old  ;  for  no 
abitants  of 
li  they  were 
they  would 
:r  put  aside 
;  than  ever 


ain  home ; 
e  door  ap- 
ised  by  the 
r  the  niorn- 
e  dewy  tVa- 
lich  seemed 

years  ago, 

child,  and 

above  the 

!  there  was 

igue  fancy 

as  I  gazed 

speared  to 

the  brow 

every  rock, 
ut  when  I 
.*ak  to  my 
I  by  Hope 
3mage  and 


A 


I 


V  > 


GLORIA   IN   EXCELSIS. 


563 


The  long-wished-for  hour  came,  and  I  began  to  mount  the  hill  to 
tlie  church,  with  a  joy  that  the  human  heart -seldom  knows.  For  I 
knew  that  I  was  going  to  receive  our  Lord,  yes,  to  receive  Him 
among  my  beloved  hills,  which  He  was  about  to  sanctify  by  His  pres- 
ence. I  thought,  as  I  neared  the  church,  how  little  did  I  dream 
when  a  child,  that  one  day  our  Saviour  would  make  me,  the  wicked 
me,  the  instrument  of  bringing  Him  among  those  hills ;  and  I  asked 
my  soul  :  was  it  not  for  this  that  He  had  enkindled  in  my  heart  a 
love  for  these  woodlands  ?  That  love  must  have  been  a  spark  from 
heaven  that  descended  into  my  breast ;  and  it  had  never  been  ex- 
tinguished by  the  waters  of  iniquity,  through  which  I  had  waded  for 
so  many  years,  but  had  lived  and  had  drawn  me  back  again  to  the 
spot  where  my  bosom  first  received  it.  My  soul  seemed  to  answer, 
Yes ;  that  it  was /or  this  that  that  love  for  nature  had  been  enkindled 
in  my  heart,  that  a  Divine  Providence  had  ever  watched  over  me, 
even  from  my  humble  cradle,  and  that  It  was  now  leading  me  by  the 
hand  to  a  virgin  altar,  where  I  would  receive  the  seal  of  the  alliance 
that  my  soul  had  contracted  with  God,  which  secured  to  it  a  title  to 
a  glorious  Immortality. 

Before  the  hour  for  the  second  Mass  came,  people  could  be  seen 
coming  from  all  directions  towards  the  little  church.  By  nine  o'clock 
every  seat  was  filled,  and  soon  the  interior  of  the  church  resounded 
with  the  "Gloria  in  Excelsis."  My  whole  soul  melted  into  tears, 
as  soon  as  the  strains  began ;  for  when  I  had  received  our  Lord  that 
morning  I  had  asked  Him  to  give  me  light  and  the  strength  to  fol- 
low it ;  and,  as  the  St.ains  of  music  rose,  they  seemed  to  raise  the 
veil  that  hung  before  my  future,  and  it  was  given  to  me  then  to  see 
what  was  before  me,  and  to  appreciate,  to  its  full  value,  what  I  had 
just  accomplished.  While  I  was  building  my  church,  I  was  buoyed 
up  with  the  illusion  that  as  soon  as  it  was  finished  all  my  trials  would 
be  ended ;  but  the  light  God  gave  me  then  was  that  my  life  of 
sacrifice  and  suffering  had  only  just  begun.  My  nature  shrank  from 
the  living  martyrdom,  and  I  wept. 

I  thanked  God  that  He  had  never  made  His  will  so  clearly  known 
to  me  before  ;  for  I  felt  that  that  illusion  had  been  necessary  for  my 
weakness ;  but  now  that  my  task  was  done,  and  I  no  longer  needed 
it,  the  illusion  vanished,  the  truth  took  its  place,  and  I  saw  that  the 
church  was  but  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  that  our  Lord  had  bid  me 
plant  in  the  earth  j  and  that  I  would  yet  water  it  with  the  tears  of  aftlic- 


,  i 


564 


THE   FINGER   OF   GOD. 


tion  and  disappointment,  and  would  have  to  shield  it  against  storms 
of  envy  and  hate,  which  the  devil  would  raise  to  blight  its  blossoms, 
break  its  branches,  and  if  possible  uproot  it.  I  was  then  fully  satisfied 
that  my  imagination,  my  ambition,  and  my  caprice  had  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  work,  and  that  I  had  built  that  church  by  the  inspiration 
and  the  help  of  God. 

At  the  Canon  of  the  Mass  my  will  was  thoroughly  resigned  to  the 
sacrifice,  and  1  tried  to  collect  all  the  powers  of  my  soul ;  for  I  felt  that 
God  would  not  refuse  me  anything  I  asked  of  Him  at  that  hour. 

The  bell  for  the  elevation  rung,  and  for  a  moment  I  was  lost  to  the 
world ;  for  all  my  faculties  were  concentrated  on  this  my  triple  re- 
quest : — That  I  might  love  God  with  all  my  heart,  that  I  might  ever 
be  faithful  to  the  graces  I  received,  and  that  my  book  might  be  the 
means  of  saving  millions  of  souls. 

Father  Bapst  addressed  the  congregation.  He  told  them,  with 
great  force,  the  importance  of  improving  the  present  moment  to  pre- 
pare for  an  eternity  which  had  no  end,  that  unless  they  sowed  now 
they  could  not  expect  to  reap  hereafter, — and,  without  any  coloring 
or  disguise,  he  plainly  told  them  that  the  Catholic  Church  alone  i)os- 
sessed  the  whole  truth,  and,  in  a  very  clear  and  concise  manner, 
proved  it  to  them ;  which  brought  smiles  of  satisfaction  to  the  faces 
of  the  Catholics,  but  made  the  Protestants  wince,  for  they  had  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before. 

He  closed  by  referring  to  the  little  church  itself,  spoke  of  its  beau- 
ty, and  complimented  my  efforts.  "But,"  said  he,  "that  lady  never 
could  have  done  this  unless  God  had  been  with  her.  The  finger  of 
God  is  here,  and  every  one  of  you  should  look  upon  this  little  church 
as  a  glory  of  this  country  place." 

This  was  a  memorable  day  for  those  who  witnessed  the  first  ser- 
vices that  were  offered  up  in  St.  Genevieve's  Chapel.  The  "  Ame/iia 
Times,"  a  Protestant  paper,  published  the  following  notice  of  the  open- 
ing:— 

"ST.    GENEVlfeVE'S    CHAPEL. 

"  The  beautiful  Catholic  chapel  erected  by  Mrs.  St.  John  Eckel, 
in  the  south  part  of  Sharon  (near  Amenia  Union)  was  opened  for  the 
services  of  the  Church  on  Sunday,  the  21st  inst.  The  edifice  is  placed 
upon  a  lofty  and  commanding  eminence,  and  the  prospect  to  the 
south  and  west  is  of  great  extent  and  most  striking  beauty.     The 


< 
< 


> 

-0 


gainst  storms 

its  blossoms, 

fully  satisfied 

ad  nothing  to 

le  inspiration 

igned  to  the 
for  I  felt  that 
at  hour. 
as  lost  to  the 
my  triple  re- 
I  might  ever 
night  be  tho 

1  them,  with 
>ment  to  pre- 
y  sowed  now 
any  coloring 
h  alone  pos- 
:ise  manner, 
to  the  faces 
sy  had  never 

of  its  beau- 
t  lady  never 
he  finger  of 
ittle  chinch 

le  first  ser- 
le  '■'^  Amciiia 
of  the  open- 


)hn  Kckel, 
ned  for  tlie 
:e  is  placed 
ect  to  the 
luty,     'i'he 


"Hill 


llllljllllil 


I    ' 

I,     I 


•     ■?!:.  \[ 


temple  i 
th'»  decc 
fastidiou 
most  ex( 
Saviour 
upon  its 


"  The 
the  Sixtt 
thrilling 
fection. 

"  The 
Order  of 
dinal  do( 

"At 
vespers, 
tions  waj 
with  an  t 
tended  b 
saw  and  I 

The  n< 
a  chapel 
All  that  ) 
and  by  yc 

Ihad£ 
new  cha] 
in  the  pn 
doctrinal 
wished  h 
angry,  as 

"  No," 
of  the  kir 
we  must 
only  from 
it  is  our  c 

Father 
It  was  to 
lie  doctrii 


I 

l     I 


THE   SERMONS. 


565 


temple  itself  is  a  model  of  good  taste  and  artistic  excellence,  while 
the  decorations  of  the  interior  are  unexceptionable,  even  to  the  most 
fastidious  criticism.  The  windows  are  of  the  choicest  designs  and 
most  exquisite  workmanship,  while  the  altar-piece,  representing  the 
Saviour  and  St.  Genevieve,  is  a  painting  so  charming  that  the  gazer 
upon  its  sweet  outlines  cannot  refrain  from  the  thought — 

"  '  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.' 

"  The  music  was  given  by  the  celebrated  organist  and  choir  from 
the  Sixteenth  Street  Church,  of  New  York  City,  and  the  sublime  and 
thrilling  harmonies  of  the  Mass  were  of  course  rendered  in  fullest  per- 
fection. 

"The  sermon  was  delivered  by  the  Rev.  Father  Bapst,  of  the 
Order  of  Jesuits,  and  was  a  clear  and  eloquent  exposition  of  the  car- 
dinal doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

"At  five  o'clock  p.m.  the  chapel  was  opened  for  the  beautiful 
vespers,  and  again  the  sweet  music  peculiar  to  those  evening  devo- 
tions was  given  with  most  charming  effect.  The  service  concluded 
with  an  excellent  sermon  by  Rev.  Father  McDonnell,  and  all  who  at- 
tended both  services  could  not  but  have  been  pleased  with  what  they 
saw  and  heard  of  the  ritual,  and  the  worship." 

The  next  day  Father  Bapst  remarked  ;  "  I  cannot  see  the  use  of 
a  chapel  here.  But  I  believed  that  God  inspired  you  to  put  it  here. 
All  that  you  have  got  to  do  now  is  to  go  ahead  and  write  your  book  ; 
and  by  your  book  you  will  be  judged." 

1  had  already  given  out  that  Father  Merrick  would  preach  in  the 
new  chapel  on  Wednesday  evening.  When  he  arrived,  1  told  him, 
in  the  presence  of  Father  Bapst,  that  I  did  not  wish  him  to  preach  a 
doctrinal  sermon.  I  wanted  him  to  speak  on  the  love  of  God  ;  for  I 
wished  him  to  please  the  Protestants,  and  not  send  them  all  away 
angry,  as  Father  Bapst  had  done. 

"  No,"  said  Father  Bapst,  interrupting  me,  "  he  will  do  nothing 
of  the  kind  ;  the  time  has  come  when  we  must  teach  the  people,  when 
we  must  proclaim  the  truth  boldly,  whether  they  like  it  or  not.  It  is 
only  from  ignorance  that  infidelity  is  making  such  rapid  strides  ;  and 
it  is  our  duty  to  strike  at  that  ignorance  whenever  we  get  a  chance. 

Father  Merrick  preached  a  long  sermon  on  pure  Catholic  doctrine. 
It  was  to  me  a  most  extraordinary  sermon.  He  explained  the  Catho- 
lic doctrine,  that  outside  the  Church  there  is  no  salvation.     His  ex- 


i  *  li?. 


!i66 


A   CHILD'S   CRITICISM. 


planation  was  so  satisfactory  and  consoling  that  both  Catholics  and 
Protestants  were  equally  well  pleased.  He  said  that  the  Church  which 
Christ  established  consisted  of  a  body  and  a  soul.  Professing  Catho- 
lics belong  to  the  body  of  the  Church  and  can,  of  course,  be  saved. 
Those  who,  through  no  fault  of  their  own,  arc  outside  of  the  Church, 
may  by  the  grace  of  Cod  belong  to  tlie  soul  of  the  Church,  and  may 
be,  in  very  truth,  members  of  the  mystic  body  of  Christ,  and  may 
be  saved.  God  alone,  "  the  Searcher  of  hearts,"  can  tell  whether 
they  are  in  good  faith  or  not,  and  to  His  judgment  we  must  leave 
them.  A  man  might  call  himself  a  member  of  the  Church,  and  be- 
long to  the  body  of  the  Church,  yet  he  migiit  not  have  Hope  and 
Charity,  and,  if  he  died  without  those  virtues,  he  would  be  damned  ; 
for  without  Faith,  Ho[)e,  and  Charity,  we  cannot  be  united  to  Christ, 
and  without  that  union  with  Christ,  no  one  can  be  saved.  Therefore 
those  who  die  having  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  do  die  members  of 
the  Church  :  no  matter  how  much  they  may  deny  belonging  to  it, 
they  do  belong  to  it. 

I  said  that  everybody  was  pleased  with  that  sermon.  At  least  I 
thought  so  at  the  time ;  but  months  passed,  when  one  day  I  was  un- 
deceived, and  I  found  that  there  was  one  youthful  member  of  the 
Catholic  Church  who  was  highly  displeased,  and  never  wished  to  hear 
another  such  sermon  preached  in  St.  Genevieve's  Chapel.  1  was 
praising  that  sermon  one  day,  when  my  little  daughter  remarked  : — 
"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  mamma,  and  1  hope  he  will  never  be  in- 
spired to  preach  another  sermon  like  that.  I  think  he  jncouraged 
the  people  a  little  too  much  to  remain  just  as  they  were  in  their  own 
churches,  and  not  to  come  over  to  ours.  I  did  not  like  that  sermon ; 
but  I  like  the  kind  of  sermons  that  Father  Bapst  and  Father  Beau- 
devin  preach,  where  it  comes  out  Bang  I" 


CHAPTER  CXVH. 

BROTHER    LETIQUE's    STORY. SUPERNATURAL    GUIDANCE. 

One  evening  I  was  listening  to  Brother  Letique  telling  me  how 
pleased  he  was  with  his  visit,  and  how  it  gratified  him  to  know  me 
better,  He  confessed  that  he  had  been  displeased  at  seeing  me  so 
much  at  the  college,  taking  up  so  much  of  the  Father's  time,  but  that 


A    LAV-liKOTHKR'S    VIEWS. 


567 


r 


now  he  understood  me  better,  and  was  j,'lad  to  see  that  I  was  deserv- 
11. g  of  the  confidcnc.i;  tliat  the  l''ather  had  in  inc.  "  lUit,"  said  the 
]5r()tlier,  "you  know  liow  it  is;  we  ahvays  have  to  look  out  for  women  ; 
there  are  so  many  visionaries  among  them.  W'iien  I  was  in  France 
one  of  the  l''atiiers  took  an  interest  in  a  lady  whom  he  believed  (lod 
had  inspired  to  found  a  work.  The  thing  went  on  for  some  months, 
until  one  day  she  sent  in  somt;  />i//s  for  our  Tathcrs  to  pay,  which 
the  door-keeper  took  to  110  Rector.  The  moment  the  Hector  saw 
the  bills  lie  pronounced  tlie  whole  work  an  illusion  of  the  Devil,  and 
that  was  the  last  of  the  work  ;  for  the  Father  was  forbidden  to  see  the 
woman  any  more.  .  i5ut  she  had  deluded  him  so  far  that  he  soon  after 
left  the  Society,  so  as  to  be  able  to  help  the  woman  in  her  project ; 
and  that  is  the  last  that  we  ever  heard  of  either  of  them." 

Thought  J  to  myself:  "I  will  take  good  care  not  to  send  you  any 
bills,  unless  I  wish  you  to  pronounce  the  whole  thing  an  illusion."  I 
felt  that  (iod  had  inspired  Brother  Letique  to  tell  me  that  story  so  as 
to  i)ut  me  on  my  guard,  and  I  was  determined  henceforth  to  hide  my 
comi)arative  i)overty  as  much  as  possible  from  the  Jesuits. 

One  morning  in  the  early  part  of  August  I  awoke  so  mentally 
jtroslrated,  that  1  had  hardly  energy  enough  to  raise  my  head  from  my 
])illow ;  I  was  so  worn  out  with  spiritual  desolation.  But  no  sooner 
had  I  raised  my  heart  to  Ciod  and  implored  Him  to  inspire  me  what 
to  do  than  I  heard  an  interior  voice  say,  "  Go  to  Manhattanville  :  go 
to  Madam  Hardey."  I  instantly  awoke  my  child  and  said  to  her: 
"  I  am  going  to  Manhattanville.     God  has  just  told  me  to  go  there." 

We  laughed  and  chatteil  away  for  a  moment  as  merrily  as  could  be, 
until  I  recollected  that  some  of  the  religious  of  the  Sacred  Heart  were 
bitterly  opposed  to  me,  as  they  had  good  reason  to  be  ;  for  I  had 
made  myself  supremely  disagreeable  to  them.  When  these  thoughts 
flashed  through  my  mind,  1  exclaimed  :  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
go  to  Manhattanville ;  I  know  that  1  am  detested  there."  I  began 
to  open  my  heart  to  my  child,  and  tell  her  the  obstacles  that  would 
surely  prevent  me  from  being  received,  besides  that,  it  was  against 
the  rules  to  take  a  boarder. 

My  child  rei)lied  :  "  But  you  just  said,  mamma,  that  God  told  you 
to  go  there  ;   and    He  does  not  care  whether  the  nuns  like  you  or 

not." 

Her  answer  filled  me  with  consolation.     I  instantly  arose  and  was 

going  to  address  a  letter  to  Madam  Hardey,  when  I  recollected  that 


:\ 


•  ' 


.    I 


1  M 


! 

•I 

V.  ■ 


568 


CONSULTING  THE   BIBLE. 


Father  Merrick  had  promised  to  come  and  say  Mass  in  my  chapel  on 
the  Feast  of  the  Assumption,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  better  for 
him  to  write  for  me. 

That  evening  I  took  my  little  Bible,  and  kneeling  before  the  statue 
of  the  liK-ssed  Virgin,  1  begged  her  to  speak  to  me,  wishing  that  slie 
would  gi'.  e  me  some  assurance  that  I  should  go  to  Manhattanville. 
I  opened  die  iJible  at  the  following  verse  :  (Jer.  li.) 

"  63.  And  it  shall  be,  when  thou  hast  made  an  end  of  reading  this 
book,  that  thou  shalt  bind  a  stone  vo  it,  and  cast  it  into  the  midst  of 
the  Euphrates." 

As  soon  as  Father  Merrick  arrived,  we  went  up- to  the  church,  and 
there  he  handed  me  a  Catholic  Bible,  which,  he  said,  the  Rector  had 
given  him  permission  to  present  to  me. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  arose,  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  as  I 
recollected  the  words  I  had  opened  at  in  Jeremiah  a  few  evenings 
previous  :  "When  thou  hast  made  an  end  of  reading  this  book,  thou 
shall  bind  a  stone  to  it  and  cast  it  in  the  midst  of  the  Euphrates," 
that  it  might  be  God's  will  that  I  should  no  longer  consult  the  10- 
testant  Bible,  but  use  the  little  Catholic  one  which  my  director  had 
brought  me. 

This  thought  no  sooner  flashed  over  my  mind  than  I  felt  that  God 
had  inspired  it,  and  I  hastened  to  tell  the  Father. 

1  found  him  saying  his  breviary.  I  had  never  seen  him  look  more 
severe  or  discomposed,  liut  when  1  told  him  how  I  had  ojiened  the 
Bible,  and  the  words  1  had  read  but  a  few  evenings  ago,  and  that  I 
was  sure  the  time  was  coming  when  it  was  (Jod's  pleasine  that  1 
should  no  longer  make  use  of  that  little  Bible  to  know  His  will, 
he  approvingly  replied :  "  This  is  the  strongest  proof  yet  that  (iod 
does  watch  over  you  and  direct  you.  I  came  u|>  here  with  the  full 
determination  to  make  you  stop  seeking  to  know  God's  will  in  that 
Protestant  Bible ;  and  if  you  had  refused,  I  should  have  told  you  to 
go  to  some  one  else  in  future  for  direction.  This  proves  to  me  that 
it  is  God's  will  that  I  should  continue  to  direct  you." 

That  same  morning  1  told  Father  Merrick  that  I  believed  God  had 
spoken  to  me,  and  had  told  me  to  go  to  Manhattanville,  and  I  asked 
him  if  he  would  not  write,  asking  my  admission.  He  hesitated,  and 
l)egan  to  enumerate'the  reasons  that  would  prevent  the  nuns'  taking 
nie.  When  I  saw  his  hesitation  I  handed  iiim  a  letter  1  had  received 
From  a  gentleman  friend,  wherein  he  accused  the  priests  of  being  su- 


" 


BEGGING   FOR   A    IIOME. 


569 


chapel  on 
better  for 

the  statue 
ig  that  slie 
lattanville. 

'ading  this 
midst  of 

lurch,  and 
5.ector  had 

0  me,  as  I 
'  eveninors 
»ook,  thou 
iiplirates," 
t  the  ro- 
■ector  had 

that  God 

00k  more 
I'ened  the 
nd  that  I 
ire  tliat  1 
His  will, 
that  (;od 
the  full 
II  in  that 

1  you  to 
me  that 

riod  had 
I  asked 
ed,  and 
i'  taking 
'eceived 


eing  su- 


premely selfish.  The  Father  turned  scarlet  and  declared  that  the 
contents  of  the  letter  were  a  libel  on  the  clergy,  and  the  church.  But  I 
took  sides  with  the  writer,  and  said  that  I  was  not  so  sure  that  he  had 
not  written  to  me  the  truth.  The  letter  had  its  effect,  however,  and 
the  Father  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Father  Bapst,  telling  him  what  I  de- 
sired, and  what  a  Protestant  friend  bad  just  written  to  me.  Father 
Bapst  replied  that  it  was  impossible  for  the  "  Ladies  of  the  Sacred 
Heart"  to  receive  me  in  the  convent  because  it  was  against  their 
rules — but  that  Madam  Hardey  had  iaid  I  could  ha,ve  a  room  in  the 
convent  cottage  which  was  situated  on  the  grounds,  and  board  with 
the  family  there. 

When  the  Father  left  he  promised  he  would  go  to  Manhattanville 
and  have  a  conversation  with  Madam  Hardey  in  regard  to  myself. 
Shortly  afterward  1  received  from  him  the  following  letter  : 

"  St.  Francis  Xavier's  College, 
'*  August  2is(,  1872. 
"  Mv  Dear   Child, 

*'  I  found  Rev'd  NCother  Hardey  greatly  indisposed  to  receive  you. 
The  particulars  of  our  conversation  I  will  relate  to  you,  or  better  I 
hope  that  she  will  herself  say  to  you  all  that  she  told  me  ;  ask  her  to 
do  so.  I  begged  her  to  speak  to  you  just  as  hard  and  as  plainly  as  she 
could  ;  that  was  the  way  to  benefit  you.  I  asked  your  admission  as  a 
personal  favor  to  myself:  as  such  it  has  been  granted  ;  but  of  course  I 
assured  the  ladies,  through  Rev'd  Mother  Hardey,  that  they  would  not 
regret  it. 

"  It  is  now  time  to  drop  all  the  past;  you  are  no  longer  to  be  a 
grand  lady,  not  even  a  lady  of  the  Avorld.  You  are  going  to  Man- 
hattanville to  be  a  recluse,  to  begin  altogether  anothei  education : 
your  reform,  and  the  foundation  of  new  habits. 

"Circumstances  oblige  you  as  yet  to  appear  in  the  world  as  a  lady; 
but  in  the  convent  the  example  of  edification  you  have  now  to  give  is 
that  of  humility.  You  are  sure  to  succeed  by  humility.  I  told  them 
that  you  would  go  there  on  any  conditions.  It  is  understood  that  as 
soon  as  you  give  any  dissatisfaction,  on  being  recpiested  to  choose 
other  lodi^ings  you  will  make  no  complaint.  This  is  the  hardest  thing 
1  have  done  for  you  yet ;  and  now  will  be  the  time  to  rest  you,  to  know 
whether  God  is  working  in  you,  whether  you  are  persevering,  or 
whether  you  change  like  the  wind. 


V 


i;  ! 


1 1 


I  I 


570 


HUMILIATION. 


"  I  greatly  sympatliize  with  you  in  the  lonely  condition  you  are  now 
in,  and  will  be  when  yon  receive  this.  F-very  morning  at  the  Holy 
Sacrifice  I  will  offer  up  fervently  the  Divine  victim  that  God  may 
give  you  grace  to  perfect  the  sacrifice,  that  dead  to  all  you  have  ever 
been  heretofore,  you  may  begin  to  live  that  life  of  subjection  to  order, 
which  makes  of  Religion  a  true  martyrdom,  but  which  is  so  pleasing 
to  God,  the  author  of  all  order  in  His  Creation,  and  whose  glory  is 
the  end  for  which  all  order  is  established.  I  am  aski  'g  too  much  of 
you  jjcrhaps  at  once — and  you  will  succeed  but  imjjerfectly. 

"Does  this  letter  read  harsh?  If  so,  remember  true  friendship  is 
that  which  seeks  our  true  good.  But  I  trust,  and  that  which  I  count 
upon  is,  that  there  is  One  who  will  comfort  you  and  strengthen  you. 

"  God  bless  you. 

"D.  A.  Merrick,  S.  J." 

I  was  in  a  great  state  of  desolation  when  I  received  the  letter,  and 
as  may  be  well  supposed  I  found  very  little  in  it  to  console  me.  It 
was  the  greatest  act  of  humility  and  obedience  I  ever  made  in  my  life, 
when  I  consented  in  my  heart  to  go  to  Manhattanville  under  those 
circumstances.  But  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  God's  will  that  I  should 
go ;  otherwise  I  would  havQ  refused.  I  dared  not  draw  back  :  for  I 
felt  that  God  Himself  demanded  the  sacrifice ;  but  I  shed  many  a 
tear  at  the  foot  of  St.  Genevieve's  altar  before  I  was  fully  resigned  to 
make  it. 

The  day  that  my  church  was  opened  many  of  the  Protestants 
thought  Father  Bapst  was  the  Aichbishop,  as  I  had  given  out  that  His 
Grace  was  coming,  and  they  had  not  heard  it  contradicted.  A  few 
days  after  the  ceremony  a  Protestant  said  to  me  that  he  never  heard 
such  music  before,  and  he  guessed  that  no  one  else  ever  did  in  that 
])art  of  the  country ;  but  he  thought  the  Archbishop  laid  it  down 
to  them  pretty  strong. 

Said  I  :  "That  was  not  the  Archbishop,  it  was  Father  Bapst,  Supe- 
rior of  the  Jesuits."  "What  is  a  Jesuit?"  he  asked.  I  looked  to 
see  if  he  was  really  in  earnest,  and  his  frank  and  ingenuous  look  plainly 
told  me  that  he  expected  me  to  answer  him.  Said  I :  "Don't  you 
know  what  a  Jesuit  is?"  "  No,"  he  replied;  "  I  never  heard  of  them 
before."  "  Well,"  I  answered,  "  it  wouUl  be  hard  for  me  to  tell  you 
in  a  few  words  what  they  are  :  but  you  must  read  my  book,  and  that 
will  tell  you  all  about  them.    Meanwhile,  I  will  merely  say  to  you  that 


the  Jesui 
of  the  nu 
If  my 
the  next 
but  it  wi 
forever 


tft 


;i  i 


DICTIONARY   ENGLISH. 


^11  are  now 
the  Holy 
I  God   may 
have  ever 
In  to  order, 
}o  pleasing 
pe  glory  is 
imich  of 


571 


the  Jesuits  are  Roman   Catholics,  and  not  Jews,  as  the  resemblance 
of  the  name  might  lead  you  to  suspect." 

If  my  neighbor  and  others  like  him  will  take  the  trouble  to  read 
the  next  chapter,  they  will  learn  something  of  this  mysterious  Society ; 
but  it  v/ill  be,  however,  for  many  of  them,  at  the  expense  of  parting 
forever  with  one  of  their  most  cherished  bugaboos. 


1 
« 


[iendship  is 
' h  I  count 
h<^n  you. 

,  S.  J." 

etter,  and 
-  me.  It 
in  my  life, 
der  those 
t  I  should 
ick  :  for  I 
d  many  a 
■signed  to 

otestants 
that  His 
•  A  few 
t-T  heard 
fl  in  that 
't  down 

t,  Supe- 
oked  to 
plainly 
)n't  you 
of  them 
■ell  you 
nd  that 
ou  that 


CHAPTKR   CXVni. 

WHAT    IS    A    JESUIT  ? 

Our  dictionaries  would  answer  the  question  by  telling  us  that  the 
primary  meaning  of  this  word  is:  One  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  so 
called,  founded  by  Ignatius  Loyola  in  1534,  a  society  remarkable  for 
their  cunning  in  propagating  their  principles;  and  that  the  second- 
ary meaning  is:  a  crafty  person,  an  intriguer.  "Jesuitism — the  arts, 
]Minciples,  and  practices  of  the  Jesuits.  2.  Cunning,  deceit,  hy- 
pocrisy, prevarication,  deceptive  practices  to  effect  a  purpose." — 
Webster. 

So  common  has  become  the  latter  acceptation  of  the  word,  that 
even  good  and  kind-hearted  men  in  private  conversation  and  pub- 
lic discourse  and  writing,  when  they  would  express  the  highest  re- 
jMobation  and  contempt  of  some  action  or  policy,  will  cap  the  cliuiax 
of  their  rhetoric,  and  nnd  fittest  culmination  of  their  invectives,  in  de- 
nouncing it  as  Jksuiticai,.  And  not  unfrequently  these  good  men 
are  charmingly  ignorant  of  the  fact — which  perhaps  they  would  be 
sincerely  grieved  to  know — that  they  are  deeply  wounding  the  hearts 
of  their  friends  of  the  Catholic  Church,  of  which  the  Jesuits  have  ever 
been,  and  are,  honored  and  revered  champions. 

It  is  far  from  me  to  deny  anything  that  may  be  true  of  the  imper- 
fections, or  shortsighlodness,  or  faults,  or  follies,  or  sins,  if  you  choose, 
of  individual  Jesuits,  or  for  that  matter  the  imperfections  and  incom- 
])leteness  that  must  attach  to  their  Society,  as  to  everything  human, 
even  at  its  best.  I  do  not  forget  that  even  the  Church  of  Christ, 
which  is  in  the  highest  sense  t/ie  Society  0/ Jesus,  is  yet  in  its  merely 
human  side,  in  its  individual  members,  subject  to  many  nuseries,  and 
weaknesses,  and  shortcomings,  and  scandals,  beginning  with  its  very 


i 


'f. 


■I, 


\r 


572 


WIIAT  THE   MASTER   COU    SELLED. 


head,  the  Pope,  and  coming  dovn  through  the  episcopacy,  the  priest- 
hood, and  the  rehgious  orders  to  the  simple  laity.  If  this  is  true  of 
the  Church,  St.  Ignatius  and  his  children  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  should 
not  deny  that  it  may  be  and  is  true  of  their  society ;  and  they  ought 
cheerfully  to  admit  that  the  "  the  disciple  is  not  above  His  Master'' 

Yet  after  an  intimate  accpiaintance  with  many  of  thein  for  years, 
and  from  the  testimony  of  pure  and  noble  souls,  both  here  and  in 
France,  J  now  protest,  from  a  love  of  truth  and  justice,  that  the  as- 
sertion implied  in  the  dictionary  definition  of  a  Jesuit  is  a  monstrous 
calumny ;  and  while  it  may  be  the  duty  of  the  lexicographer  to  state 
that  such  is  a  common  acceptation  of  the  term,  yet  the  fact  of  such 
acceptation  is  a  lamentable  proof  of  the  shameful  ignorance  and  cruel 
spite  of  the  peoi)le  and  age  that  continue  to  accept  it. 

I  protest,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  what  I  say,  that  this  definition  is 
precisely  of  a  character  with,  and  presents  just  about  as  much  truth 
as,  the  definition  of  the  word  Christian,  which  might  ajipear  in  some 
dictionary  of  the  "heathen  Chinee,"  or  of  some  future  free-thinking 
people  :  '*  Christian — a  member  of  the  society  founded  by  Christ ; 
a  sneak,  a  hypocrite,  a  thief;  one  who  holds  and  practises  the  prin- 
ciple, that  it  is  well  to  cheat  people  out  of  their  money  and  pleasures 
and  comforts  in  this  world  by  false  promises  of  some  imaginary 
felicity  in  the  next." 

Now,  then,  what  is  a  Jesuit?  In  the  first  place,  the  Jesuit  professes 
to  be  a  Christian  and  a  Catholic,  and  with  the  exception  of  the  lay- 
brothers  who  attend  to  the  domestic  occupations  of  the  house,  they 
are  priests,  or  students  for  the  priesthood.  So  that  the  true  Jesuit  is 
all  that  is  conveyed  by  the  sacred  names  of  Christian  and  Catholic 
and  priest. 

We  find  in  the  Gospel  that  besides  teaching  His  doctrine,  which 
all  men  must  believe,  and  enforcing  the  commandments  of  the  moral 
law  and  of  religious  worshi[),  which  all  men  must  obey,  and  giving 
sacraments  as  channels  of  grace,  our  Lord  gave  counsels  of  highest 
wisdom  and  religious  perfection,  which.  He  expressly  tells  us,  all  men 
cannot  appreciate,  and  are  not  called  to  i)ractise.  Yet  we  must  feel 
that  what  is  but  a  counsel  for  the  individual  should  be  like  a  sacred 
injunction  for  the  Church.  And  as  a  nutter  of  fact,  from  the  apos- 
tolic age  till  now,  the  Church  has  ever  encouraged  and  exhorted  her 
most  favored  children  to  practise  these  evangelical  counsels  of  c)ms- 
tity,  poverty  and  obedience. 


Tl 

dinatl 

guidii 

evani 

founj 

acteJ 

wroii 

reviN 

IgnJ 

his 

nani 

rien 

It  i 

call 

rivi 


THE   COMPANY   OF  JESUS.' 


573 


^cy,  the  priest- 
[tliis  is  true  of 
^f  Jesus  should 
Ki  they  ought 
\-Vfs  Master:' 
I  em  for  years, 
here  and  in 
h,  that  the  as- 
|s  a  monstrous 
ip'ier  to  state 
^^ct  of  such 
nee  and  cruel 

s  definition  is 
"luch  truth 
Pt-^ir  in  some 
free-thinking 
d  l)y  Christ  ; 
ises  the  prin- 
ind  pleasures 
e   imaginary 

"it  professes 
1  of  the  lay- 
house,  they 
■«'e  Jesuit  is 
t^d  Catholic 

'ine,  which 
f"  the  moral 
and  giving 
of  highest 
IS,  all  men 
must  feel 
'i  a  sacri'd 
the  apos- 
orted  her 
■  of  chas- 


The  religious  orders,  whether  of  men  or  women,  are  but  subor- 
dinate societies  within  the  Church,  composed  of  those  who,  under  her 
guidance  and  with  her  sanction,  unite  to  profess  and  practise  these 
evangelical  counsels.  These  societies  or  orders  have  generally  been 
founded  by  men  or  women  of  grand  and  heroic  Christian  char- 
acter, who,  by  wondrous  sanctity  of  life,  and  by  miracles  which  Cod 
wrought  at  their  hands,  were  evidently  raised  up  by  Cod  Himself  to 
revive  the  faith  and  piety  of  His  ])eople  ;  and  such  a  'nan  was  St. 
Ignatius  of  Loyola,  the  founder  of  the  Jesuits.  So  enthusiastic  was 
his  love  for  his  Saviour,  that  he  would  call  his  society  by  no  other 
name  than  that  of  his  Master,  and  borrowing  from  his  military  expe- 
rience and  habits  of  thought,  he  called  it  "Thk  Company  of  Jksus." 
It  is  well  worthy  of  remark,  that  while  other  religious  orders  are 
called  after  their  founders,  the  much-reviled  name  Jesuit  is  but  a  de- 
rivative of  the  sacred  name  of  Jesus. 

In  vowing  themselves  to  the  practice  of  the  evangelical  counsels, 
the  religious  orders — so  far  from  dispensing  themselves  from  the  laws 
of  Cod — profess,  beside  observing  the  whole  law,  to  do  nnich  that  the 
law  of  Cod  and  the  Church  would  leave  them  free  not  to  do.  By  the 
vow  of  chastity  they  renounce  the  rigiit  to  marry,  and  consecrate  soul 
and  body  to  God  ;  by  the  vow  of  poverty  they  renounce,  for  the  good 
of  religion  and  charity,  all  right  to  property  and  to  compensation  for 
their  labors ;  and  by  the  vow  of  obedience,  for  the  same  high  ends, 
they  renounce  their  own  will,  promising  to  obey  whenever  the  law 
of  God  does  not  forbid ;  and  so,  like  true  soldiers  of  Christ,  they 
are  ready  to  go,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to 
preach  the  Gospel,  and  to  bear  witness  to  it  with  their  blood,  or 
to  some  pest-stricken  city  to  bear  equally  heroic  testimony  to  divine 
charity. 

Such,  then,  is  a  perfect  Jesuit.  He  may  well  be  called  invincible, 
for  he  conquers  the  world  by  first  conquering  himself  The  world 
has  no  power  over  di.  perfect  Jesuit. 

He  knows  not  that  fear  which  makes  men  cowards  in  the  presence 
of  duty,  for  he  finds  C]od  everywhere,  in  the  greatest  privations,  in 
sufferings  and  in  being  despised.  Death  has  no  terror  for  him,  as  it 
only  brings  him  nearer  to  the  adorable  object  of  his  confidence  and 
love. 

The  CImrch  gave  birth  to  the  Society  of  Jesus  at  the  moment  that 
Lutheranism  began  its  revolt  against  her,  and  the  society  has  always 


•   < 


I  ■ 


574 


WHAT   THE  JESUITS  TEACH. 


been    regarded    since    its   organization   as   the    body-guard    of    the 
Church. 

The  Jesuits  are  no  friends  of  ignorance.  Nay,  rather,  they  feel  that 
ignorance  is  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  the  facility  with  which  men 
are  induced  to  revolt  against  the  Church  of  Christ ;  and  so  they  make 
it  a  distinctive  characteristic  of  their  order  to  teach,  and  not  merely 
religious  trutli,  but  also  literature  and  science. 

Of  course  the  devil  does  not  love  the  Jesuits  ;  and  little  perhaps  do 
some  of  his  poor  dupes  of  worldlings  suspect  how  much  of  their  fine  and 
big  talk,  about  Jesuitism  is  inspired  by  the  Satanic  Mephistopheles  who 
is  chuckling  at  their  elbows. 

From  my  childhood  1  have  heard  the  Jesuits  railed  at  and  abused, 
and  their  teachings  branded  as  devilish.  Wliat  are  those  teachings 
that  are  so  nuich  reviled  ?  What  do  the  Jesuits  t^ach  ?  They  teach 
that  but  one  thing  is  necessary,  which  is  to  save  our  souls,  in  working 
to  know,  to  love,  and  to  serve  God.  It  is  because  men  study  them- 
selves so  little  that  they  are  lost  in  pride  and  led  astray  by  sensual 
passion.  They  insist  upon  the  obligation  of  pardoning  injuries,  of 
maintaining  the  peace,  of  sacrificing  our  own  interest  and  self  love 
to  the  general  good,  of  being  perfectly  resigned  to  the  will  of  (iod  in 
all  things  and  at  all  times,  and  endeavoring  to  walk  as  closely  as  we 
can  in  the  footsteps  of  Him  who  is  the  "  way,  the  truth,  and  the  life." 

They  teach  that  happiness  in  this  world  consists  in  conforming  our 
minds  to  the  truth,  our  wills  to  that  which  is  right,  our  natural  activity 
to  the  rules  of  order  ;  and  it  is  this  subjection  of  the  whole  man  to 
truth,  right,  and  order,  which  is  the  central  point  towards  which  all 
their  teachings  converge. 

The  Jesuits  tell  you  that  if  you  teach  man  to  believe  nothing  you 
cannot  expect  him  to  resjiect  anything,  because  belief  is  the  source  of 
respect.  If  you  teach  man  to  despise  the  law  of  God,  you  cannot 
expect  him  to  submit  to  that  of  the  state.  They  teach  that  the  best 
way  to  secure  order  in  the  streets  is  to  maintain  it  first  in  the  con- 
science of  the  people.  They  teach  that  God  should  be  our  only  hope, 
our  glory,  and  our  security  ;  that  we  must  not  rely  upon  ourselves  ;  for 
we  cannot  without  God's  aid  resist  our  passions,  and  vantpiish  the 
enemies  of  our  soul.  They  teach  that  voluntary  humiliation  leads  to 
glory,  for  it  is  God  Himself  who  called  it  illustrious  ;  and  that  that 
which  His  word  has  glorified  no  one  can  degrade. 

The  world,  to  smother  its  anxieties,  sa)  s  that  God  is  good,  and  He 


cannot 
that  (iol 
what  thj 
been  all 
But  ^^ 
Why,  it| 
banish 
Let 
of  Gerj 
always  I 
are  for 
cnemit 
Wlu 
labors 
withoi 
Tike  t 
givenc 
thresh 
If  a 
writte 
thinks 
truth 
for  th 
.   Holy 


Iian]   of   (he 

f  ley  feel  that 
"Iiich  men 
they  make 
"ot  merely 

perhaps  do 
peir  fine  and 
>pfieles  who 

'id  abused, 
teacliings 
I'hey  teach 
in  working 
tudy  them- 
W  sensual 
njmies,  of 

^I  self  love 

of  God  in 

>sely  as  we 

I  the  life." 

rming  our 

al  activity 

e  man  to 
which  all 

hing  you 
source  of 
•  cannot 
the  best 
the  con- 
ily  hope, 
\es ;  for 
•ish   the 
leads  (o 
>at  that 

md  He 


THEIR   LOVE   l-'OR   THEIR   SOCIETY. 


575 


cannot  jninish  forever ;  but  the  Jesuit  replies  with  as  much  reason 
that  Clod  is  just,  and  that  He  will  not  pardon  without  end.  This  is 
what  they  teach,  and  it  is  for  such  teachings  that  they  have  always 
been  abhorred  and  persecuted. 

But  what  can  despotism  do  with  a  society  of  men  of  such  mould  ? 
Why,  it  can  only  do  what  it  has  always  done  :  either  murder  them  or 
banish  them  from  its  dominions. 

Let  despotism  manifest  itself  in  one  man,  as  in  Prince  Bismarck 
of  (lermany,  or  in  many,  as  in  the  French  Commune,  its  conduct  is 
always  the  same.  The  Jesuits  are  nnu'dered  in  one  land,  and  they 
are  forced  to  fly  from  another,  yet  they  ever  seek  to  conquer  their 
enemies  by  moderation,  and  adverse  fortune  by  constancy. 

Whether  they  are  felled  by  the  executioner's  axe,  or  torn  from  their 
labors  by  a  sentence  of  exile,  they  die  or  leave  their  field  of  labors 
without  cursing  that  law  of  suft'ering  to  which  we  are  condemned. 
Like  the  martyrs  of  old,  their  parting  breath  is  offered  up  asking  for- 
giveness for  their  persecutors,  whom  they  invite  to  meet  them  on  the 
threshold  of  eternity. 

If  any  one  sus[)ects  that  the  Jesuits  will  feel  flattered  at  what  I  have 
written  in  regard  to  them,  he  is  very  much  mistaken  ;  and  whoever 
thinks  so  knows  very  little  about  the  spirit  of  the  order ;  for  the 
truth  is  that  the  Jesuits  have  such  an  inordinate  love  and  admiration 
for  their  founder  and  their  Society,  that  if  they  were  listening  to  the 
Holy  Ghost  preaching  on  either  of  them,  and  He  should  lavish  all 
the  praises  that  it  is  possible  for  words  to  express  on  St.  Ignatius  and 
his  order,  I  verily  believe  that  there  is  not  a  Jesuit  living  but  what 
would  feel  that  the  Holy  Ghost  had  fallen  short  of  the  truth.  That 
is  the  great  defect  of  the  Jesuits ;  but  it  springs  from  their  firm  belief 
that  their  institution  is  of  divine  origin,  and  that  it  is  all-perfect;  and 
they  are  so  strongly  imbued  with  that  belief,  that  not  one  of  them 
could  be  made  to  believe  that  there  exists  anything  as  good  outside 
of  it. 

Not  having  that  film  over  my  eyes,  which  seems  to  grow  so  natu- 
rally over  the  eyes  of  every  Jesuit,  I  think  I  can  see  a  little  clearer 
than  they  do  in  that  respect ;  for,  nothwithstandmg  my  great  venera- 
tion and  love  for  the  Jesuits,  I  think  1  have  seen  quite  as  nnich  to 
venerate  and  resi)ect  in  members  of  other  religit)us  orders  and  of  the 
secular  clergy  as  I  have  seen  in  the  Society  of  Jesus. 


.  m 


) 


576 


A   VOICE   FROM    FRANCE. 


CHAPTER  CXIX. 

AN     ECHO     OK     THE     PAST.  —  SOLITUDE,     SUFKKRING,     AND      KESIGNA- 

TION. — A    sister's    HATE. 

I  CLOSED  my  house  early  in  September.  \\'hen  I  got  to  the  station 
I  found  a  package  for  me  whicli  had  just  been  brought  by  tlic  ex- 
press. It  contained  a  beautiful  set  of  vestments  that  Mons.  de 
Corcelles  had   sent   from    France ;   and  with  it  came    the   following 

letter  : 

"  National  Assembly,  Versailles, 

"  July  y,  1872. 
"  Mv  Very  Dear  Madam  and  Friend, 

"  Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you,  why  this  painful  silence  of  two  years  ? 

"  You  promised  to  let  us  hear  from  you  ;  yet  we  have  been  obliged 
to  send  into  Germany  to  the  good  Princess  Sulkowska  to  l<?arn  any- 
thing in  regard  to  you  ;  even  then  we  could  only  obtain  the  most 
vague  information.  My  cousin,  Mine,  de  Montalenibert,  alone 
assures  me,  with  a  sort  of  certainty,  that  you  are  building  your  chapel, 
and  that  }ou  live  so  retired  that  you  do  not  wish  to  write  to  any 
one. 

"  The  last  time  I  received  a  letter  from  you  we  were  on  the  eve  of 
the  siege  of  Paris,  during  which  we  did  not  leave  the  Rue  de  Cirenelle. 
My  young  son,  nineteen  years  of  age,  who  enlisted  in  the  Mobiles, 
took  part  in  several  combats,  was  wounded  by  a  bombshell,  and 
gained  the  Military  Medal.  I  divided  my  time  between  him  and 
the  other  wounded  in  the  hospitals.  There  was  one  of  these  at  the 
Sacred  Heart,  Rue  de  Varennes.  It  was  a  sad  pleasure  for  me  to  visit 
it  and  the  ten  others  committed  to  my  inspection. 

"  After  the  siege  we  were  all  dejected,  but  reunited  without  private 
misfortunes.  At  the  same  time,  one  of  the  largest  Departments  of 
France — that  of  the  North — named  me  deputy,  entirely  without  my 
knowledge.  I  had  hardly  learned  that  I  had  received  these  two  hun- 
dred and  six  thousand  votes,  compelling  me  to  take  a  prominent  part  in 
the  greatest  and  saddest  duty  that  ever  could  be  imposed  on  a  represent- 
ative assembly,  when  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  Bordeaux,  and  then  to 
Versailles  during  the  siege  of  the  Conunune.  It  would  be  too  long  to 
tell  you  all  my  grave  occupations.     The  principal  ones  have  for  their 


oojcci 

They  " 

"11 

durinJ 

the  11 

to  r| 

and  l| 

the  ii| 

self- 

mostl 

wisd(| 

mire 

like 

then 


"D      RESIGxVA. 


to  the  station 
[lit  b}-  the  ex- 

^t  Afons.  de 
llie  following 

II.I.ES, 

'0'  yi,  ,872. 

}ears  ? 
x^en  obliged 
■o  Ituirn  any- 
I'li  the  most 
'l^c'it,  alone 
your  chapel, 
write  to  any 

I  the  eve  of 
Ic  Greiielle. 
le  Mobiles, 
^shelj,  and 
1  lii'n  and 
I'ese  at  the 
me  to  visit 

"It  private 
tiiieius  of 
(hoiit  my 
two  hun- 
•nt  part  in 
epresent- 
cl  then  lo 
u  long  {o 
for  their 


IN   MY   NEW   HOME. 


577 


ooject  new  laws  to  insure  to  our  poor  France  a  Christian  instruction. 
They  continue  to  occupy  my  attention. 

"Two  months  ago  I  availed  myself  of  an  interruption  in  our  labors, 
during  the  Easter  festivities,  to  pay  my  homage  to  our  Holy  Father, 
the  Pope— my  last  homage,  perhaj)s ;  for  it  was  my  seventh  journey 
to  Rome.  He  overwhelmed  me  with  his  sweetness  and  goodness; 
and  I  returned  penetrated,  more  than  I  know  how  to  express,  with 
the  incomparable,  apostolic  beauty  of  his  soul.  Not  a  thought  of 
self — not  a  word  of  bitterness  ;  the  most  holy  courage  united  to  the 
most  perfect  meekness !  His  opinions  on  all  our  trials  were  full  of 
wisdom  and  moderation.  All  this  I  had  occasion  to  love  and  to  ad- 
mire in  the  several  audiences  that  were  granted  to  me.  How  I  should 
like  to  enlarge  upon  this  subject  !  You  would  be  touched  by  it,  and 
then,  perhaps,  you  would  be  induced  to  answer  this  letter. 

"Meanwhile  1  must  inform  you  that  1  have  happily  succeeded  in 
my  appeal  to  the  excellent  Baroness  de  I'Esperut,  the  wife  of  one  of 
my  colleagues,  to  obtain  from  the  society  to  which  she  belongs,  a 
complete  set  of  vestments  for  your  American  chapel.  The  Alar- 
chioness  de  Noailles  has  brought  it  to  America  for  you.  1  join  to  it 
a  little  book  of  V'isits  to  the  V>.  Sacrament,  to  recall  to  your  mind  the 
Feast  of  Easter  al  Notre  Dame  a  short  time  before  the  catastrophes, 
the  end  of  which  1  fear  we  have  not  reached. 

"Mnie.  de   Corcelles  joins    me   in    the   expression  of  her  most 

affectionate    sentiments.      I'ray   for    us,    and   accept   my  profound 

esteem. 

"F\  DE  Corcelles."  * 

M.  de  Corcelles'  letter  was  to  me  like  an  echo  of  my  j^ast  pros- 
perity. It  increased  the  bitterness  of  my  present  state,  and  also  my 
repugnance  to  go  and  live  under  the  protection  of  t  community 
which  was  so  loth  to  receive  me.  When  I  arrived  at  i  .e  convent,  I 
was  received  by  the  Assistant-Sui)erior,  who  told  me  that  the  police- 
man, who  watched  their  grounds,  resided  in  the  convent  cottage,  and 
it  was  with  his  family  that  Madam  Hardey  had  made  arrangements  for 
me  to  board,  and  1  was  to  pay  ten  dollars  a  week  :  t<)  all  of  whicii  1  most 
readily  assented.     But  the  moment  1  laid  my  eyes  on  the  policeman's 


H 


*  Mons,  de  Corcelles  has  since  been  sent  to  Rome  as  A  nibassador  of  the  French 
Repulilic  to  tlie  Pope. 


25 


578 


MY   MISTRESS   OF  NOVICES. 


wife  my  heart  failed  me.  She  was  a  short,  stout,  thick-set  woman,  with 
i^allow  complexion,  of  a  dcterinined  and  most  independent  mien. 

The  fust  thing  she  said  to  me  was,  that  she  did  not  wish  to  take 
me,  and  she  had  only  done  so  to  oblige  Madam  Hardey ;  but  for  no 
one  else  would  she  have  done  it.  If  her  own  mother  had  come  and 
asked  her  to  board  her,  she  would  have  refused. 

While  she  was  speaking,  I  thought  to  myself,  "I  will  make  believe 
that  I  am  making  my  novitiate  and  that  this  woman  is  the  mistress 
of  novices,  and  that  my  future  work  dei)ends  on  my  living  peaceably 
with  her  ; "  for  I  was  sure  that  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  into  a  quarrel  with  her.  I  began  to  treat  her  as  though 
she  were  a  queen  ;  which  seemed  to  please  her  very  much  ;  for  she 
smiled  when  she  bade  me  good-day,  although  she  frowned  terribly  at 
me  when  I  came.  The  next  day  I  took  possession  of  the  room. 
The  policeman's  wife  told  me  that  she  did  not  believe  that  I  would  be 
able  to  live  diere ;  but  I  knew  that  I  would  stay,  as  there  was  no  other 
alternative.  I  knew,  too,  that  if  I  should  complain  the  Jesuits  would 
immediately  pronounce  to  be  an  illusion  my  conviction  that  God  had 
called  me  to  found  a  work. 

Madam  Hardey  was  to  sail  for  luirope  on  the  nth  of  September. 
I  saw  her  the  day  before  she  sailed,  and  promised  her  that  1  would 
do  everything  I  could  to  give  satisfiiction,  and  that  she  would  hear  a 
good  report  of  me  when  she  returned,  and  that  she  would  never  regret 
having  permitted  me  to  come  and  live  at  the  convent  cottage. 

My  relations  with  the  religious  of  the  Sacred  Heart  while  1  resided 
at  their  cottage  are  easily  told  :  my  position  there  was  like  that  of  the 
negro  cadet  at  West  Point, — nobody  spoke  to  me  excepting  those 
on  duty, — and  my  official  intercourse  was  chiefly  with  the  religious 
who  opened  the  door.  In  other  words,  they  left  me  severely  alone. 
I  passed  my  time  entirely  alone  excepting  on  afternoons  of  Sundays 
and  Thursdays,  when  my  child  was  permitted  to  come  from  the  con- 
vent academy  to  visit  me  in  the  cottage.  The  rest  of  the  time  I 
would  pass  either  praying,  walking,  or  writing,  and  usually  when  I 
was  walking  I  would  keej)  praying,  for  it  was  the  only  way  I  could 
keep  up  my  spirits.  ■  The  moment  I  would  lose  my  fervor  for  prayer 
I  would  grow  melancholy. 

To  be  surrounded  by  hundreds  of  souls  and  have  no  one  to  sjieak 
to,  is  the  most  appalling  and  most  dreary  of  solitudes — one  would 
feel  less  desolate  alone  in  a  desert.     Besides,  1  knew  that  I  was  not 


want 

nali( 

not 

disai 

feari 

enc( 

ing 

mys( 


woman,  with 
It  mien. 
wish  to  take 
;  but  for  no 
J  come  and 

ake  believe 
he  mistress 
f  peaceably 
ling  in  the 
as  though 
h  ;  for  she 
I  terribly  at 
the  room. 
I  would  be 
as  no  other 
suits  would 
It  God  had 

5eptember. 
at  1  would 
)uld  hear  a 
iver  regret 

;  I  resided 
that  of  the 
ting  those 
■  religious 
^c/y  alone. 
r  Sundays 
1  the  con- 
lie  time  I 
y  when  I 
K  I  could 
or  prayer 

to  speak 

lie  would 

was  not 


THE   IILACK   VIRGIN   OF  POLAND. 


579 


wanted  there,  and  that  feeling  was  constantly  gnawing  on  my  imagi- 
nation. My  confessor,  too,  became  mere  and  more  severe.  I  was 
not  making  the  spiritual  progress  that  he  expected  of  me.  He  was 
disappointed  and  discouraged,  and  would  fre(iuently  tell  me  that  he 
feared  that  all  was  ^n  illusion.  It  was  seldom  that  he  gave  me  an 
encouraging  word,  and  if  I  ventured  to  reproach  him  for  never  offer- 
ing me  a  word  of  consolation  he  would  scold  me  for  lamenting  over 
myself. 

The  convent  is  situated  on  high  ground,  and  is  healthy,  but  the  cot- 
tage stands  near  a  stagnant  pool  and  is  damp.  All  its  occui)ants  had 
the  chills,  and  towards  the  latter  part  of  October  I,  too,  fell  ill,  and  had 
a  severe  attack  of  fever  and  ague.  My  room  was  cold,  and  there  was 
no  iK)ssibility  of  making  a  tire  in  it  unless  I  got  a  stove. 

IJy  this  time  I  had  very  little  money  left.  I  had  long  since  parted 
with  my  diamonds,  my  laces,  and  most  of  my  finery,  to  raise  money 
to  go  on  with  the  church.  I  had  sold  the  bulk  of  my  furniture,  and 
all  my  valuable  souvenirs  excepting  the  beautiful  crucifix  that  (len- 
eral  Rollin  gave  me,  a  Madonna,  an  original  painting  by  Sassoferrato, 
which  the  Princess  Iza  sent  me  for  my  oratory  a  few  days  before  I 
sailed,  and  a  Byzantine  painting  representing  our  Lady  of  Czen- 
stochow  (or  I.oretlo),  of  Poland,  otherwise  known  as  the  Black 
Virgin,  a  present  from  the  Prince  Czartoryski. 

Whenever  1  needed  money  I  would  be  tempted  to  sell  this  picture ; 
but  those  to  whom  I  would  apply  would  try  to  take  advantage  of  my 
necessities,  and  would  offer  me  for  it  much  less  than  it  v.as  worth, 
and  by  the  time  they  would  agree  to  give  me  its  value,  I  had  gotten 
out  of  my  difficulties  and  would  not  sell  it  at  any  price.  1  was  try- 
ing one  day  to  raise  five  hundred  dollars,  and  was  met  with  rebuffs, 
wherever  I  went.  One  Protestant  gentleman,  a  hater  of  Catholics, 
ridiculed  my  faith  that  God  would  one  day  come  to  my  help  and 
would  i)ay  all  my  debts.  Said  he:  "Where  do  you  expect  to  find 
the  key  to  the  Lord's  treasury?  I  would  like  to  get  hold  of  it  my- 
self." I  replied :  "  You  will  find  it  in  prayer,  if  you  will  perseve- 
ringly  look  for  it  there."  "Madam,"  he  replied,  "you  have  an- 
swered well ;  "  and  with  those  words  we  parted.  That  day,  I  exhaust- 
ed every  resource  trying  to  raise  the  money,  and  concluded  that  I 
must  part  with  the  picture  of  the  miraculous  Virgin,  Our  Lady  of 
Czenstochow. 

The  next  morning  I   called  a  servant,  told  her  to  get  ready  and 


f 


THE   J5LESSED   VIRGIN   HELPS   ME. 


The  tears  started  in  my  eyes,  I  hated  so  to 


580 

take  it  to  Mr. 
part  with  it. 

While  1  gazed  upon  it,  1  fell  upon  my  knees  and  implored  the 
lllessed  Virgin  not  to  force  me  to  part  with  that  precious  image  of 
herself.  Said  I  to  her  :  "  1  know  you  can  perform  miracles — perforu) 
one  now,  and  let  me  keep  this  picture.  If  you  will  heli)  me  out  of 
this  trouble,  J  will  never  offer  it  for  sale  again ;  I  promise  you  that  I 
will  never  part  with  it,  if  you  will  only  get  me  the  five  hundred  dol- 
lars." When  the  servant  came  to  take  it,  1  said:  "Wait  until  this 
afternoon,  wait  until  the  sun  goes  down  ;  then  come  to  me,  and  1  will 
tell  you  if  you  shall  take  it  there  or  not."  She  left  me  and  1  still 
continued  to  pray,  ever  invoking  the  IJlack  Virgin  to  ins|)ire  me  where 
to  go  to  ask  for  the  money.  I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  remained 
there,  for  my  senses  became  lost,  as  it  were,  in  prayer,  until  I  was 
startled,  as  though  awakened,  by  the  door-bell  ringing,  antl  its  ring 
sent  an  jleclric  thrill  through  my  heart,  and  I  rushed  to  the  door  to 
open  it  myself.  It  was  the  Protestant  gentleman,  the  Catholic-hater, 
and  these  were  his  words  : 

"Just  as  I  was  leaving  the  house  to  go  down  town  you  came  into 
my  head.  1  don't  care  a  cent  for  your  church,  but  I  do  admire  your 
faith,  and  1  think  that  it  ought  to  be  rewarded,  even  on  earth." 
"Why,"  said  I,  "it  is  rewarded  on  this  earth;  you  don't  su[)pose 
that  God  is  going  to  keep  us  eternally  waiting,  do  you  ?  "  "  Well," 
he  replied,  "  let  me  speak.  1  have  come  to  give  you  the  five 
hundred  dollars  that  you  need  on  the  day  after  to-morrow  to  pay  to 
the  carpenter.  Ciet  your  hat,  come  down  with  me  to  the  bank,  and 
you  shall  have  it."  Instead  of  thankinj^  him,  I  at  once  exclaimed, 
"The  IJlack  Virgin  did  it !-— the  Black  Virgin  did  it!" — and  in  a 
second  I  was  out  of  his  sight,  in  the  parlor,  covering  her  picture  with 
the  most  grateful  kisses,  forgetting  all  about  the  gentleman  I  had 
left  in  the  hall.  As  soon  as  I  recollected  myself  I  returned  to  him 
and  told  him  all  aI)out  the  picture,  and  that  I  believed  that  the  lilack 
Virgin  had  interceded  for  me,  and  God  had  inspired  him  to  give  me 
the  money.  He  laughed  at  me,  and  declared  that  I  was  crazy.  I 
accompanied  the  gentleman  down  town,  and  he  made  me  a  present 
of  five  one  hundred  dollar  bills.  To  this  day  1  pronounce  it  a 
miracle. 

1  never  durst  intimate  a  word  about  my  present  indigence  to  my 
director,  because  I  never  forgot  Brother  Letic^ue's  story.    I  could  not 


HUNGER   AND   COLD. 


581 


hated  so  to 

iiiplored  the 
uiis  image  of 
cs — i)erform 
P  me  out  of 
e  you  that  r 
uuulred  dol- 
lit  until  this 
'e,  and  I  will 
and   I   still 
ire  nie  where 
I   remained 
until  I  was 
ind  its  rin^ 
»  the  door  to 
■tholic-hater, 

11  came  into 
admire  your 

on  earth." 
n't  .suppose 
"  "  Well," 
0"  the  five 
w  to  pay  to 
i  bank,  and 

exclaimed, 
— and  in  a 
)icture  with 
'"an  I  had 
lied  to  him 
t  the  Jjlack 
to  give  me 
i  crazy,  I 
■  a  present 
>iince  it  a 

ice  to  my 
could  not 


:| 


take  the  little  sum  of  money  I  had  left,  to  buy  a  stove  and  some  wood. 
In  the  meanwhile  I  sutVer(;d  intensely  from  the  colil.  'J'he  police- 
man's wife  fed  me  miserably,  and  once  more  1  knew  what  the  pangs 
of  hunger  were  ;  for  I  durst  not  si)end  an  extra  cent  for  anything  to 
eat. 

Friday,  October  25th,  I  had  scarcely  money  enough  to  pay  another 
week's  board.  It  was  raining  and  blustering  without,  yet  I  preferred 
going  out  in  the  rain  to  staying  home  and  being  obliged  to  go  to  bed 
to  keep  warm.  I  went  to  St.  Xavier's  Church  and  knelt  down  before 
the  altar  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  the  basement.  I  was  chilled  through 
every  pore.  I  was  hungry  too,  and  my  feet  were  soaking  wet  and 
cold.  I  had  no  overshoes,  and  there  were  holes  in  my  shoes.  As  L 
knelt  by  the  altar  I  was  tempted  with  the  thought  that  there  could  be 
no  Ciod  or  He  would  not  reduce  me  to  this  extremity  when  I  was 
trying  to  do  better  than  at  any  time  since  I  left  France.  I  looked  back 
and  regretted  the  beautiful  and  comfortable  home  in  Paris  that  I  had 
left  believing  it  was  the  will  of  (lod.  I  began  to  regret  it  and  Lafer- 
riere,  and  wished  that  I  had  never  left  them  ;  for  I  felt  in  that  moment 
that  I  should  perish  from  physical  want ;  and  1  began  to  implore  the 
Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus  to  give  me  light  and  to  tell  nie  what  to  do. 

I  had  no  sooner  asked  our  Ford  for  light  than  I  instantly  perceived 
that  all  my  thoughts  were  a  tem])tation  against  Faith.  I  arose  to  my 
feet  anil  said  to  the  devil,  "  Cio  away  ;  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you ; "  and  then,  fixing  my  eyes  on  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus,  I  ex- 
claimed, "  I  am  willing  to  suffer  more  than  this  for  Thee  ;  I  implore 
Thf  f  do  no',  abandon  me.  I  would  not  take  back  that  home,  or 
Faferriere.  I  would  not  have  that  home  again.  Sooner  poverty  with 
Thee  than  such  gilded  misery  without  Thee." 

I  remained  there  over  an  hour  nomishing  such  sentiments  in  my 
heart,  and  before  I  left  the  altar  I  was  fully  determined  to  persevere, 
even  though  He  killed  me. 

The  29th  of  October  was  cold  and  damp.  I  began  to  ask  myself 
what  I  should  do,  and  where  I  should  go.  I  had  not  a  friend  in  the 
world  whom  I  could  call  upon  and  feel  that  I  was  welcome.  The 
thought  struck  me  that  I  would  go  and  see  my  sister.  So  I  dressed 
myself  in  some  remnants  of  finery  that  I  still  possessed,  and  started 
oft".  I  thought  it  would  be  sweet  to  open  my  heart  to  her,  for  [  felt 
sure  thrt  she  would  sympathize  with  me. 

My  s.ster  refused  to  see  me.     I  was  thoroughly  unprepared  for 


'V.-*#< 


583 


MARIA   monk's   other   DAUGHTER. 


Si'.ch  treatment.  I  told  the  servant  to  tell  her  that  the  lady  desned 
very  nnich  to  see  her.  She  then  sent  down  word  for  me  to  wait  until 
she  was  ready.  My  tune  was  precious,  as  I  wanted  to  return  by  the 
next  train.  I  sent  up  word  imploring  her  not  to  keep  me  waiting  and 
to  see  me  at  once.  This  time  she  consented  to  see  me  and  told  the 
servant  to  conduct  me  to  her  room. 

I  had  the  "  Awful  Disclosures"  in  my  hand  and  remarked  that  it  was 
a  recent  edition,  for  I  thought  it  was.  She  took  it,  looked  at  the  date, 
called  me  a  liar,  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  house.  I  begged  her  let  me 
remain  until  it  was  time  to  take  the  next  train.  As  she  o))ened  the 
door  to  thrust  me  out,  and  as  1  retreated  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
she  vented  upon  me  the  foulest  abuse,  which  took  me  back  to  the 
awful  domestic  scenes  we  had  both  witnessed  in  our  infancy. 

She  told  me  how  she  hated  me,  and  that  she  had  hated  mc  from 
the  hour  that  I  was  born.  Said  I  to  her:  "  How  can  ycfii  say  your 
l)rayers  at  night  and  ask  (»od  to  forgive  you  as  you  forgive  others  ?  " 
She  interrupted  me  before  I  could  finish  and  said  :  "  Away  with  your 
cant,  you  hypocrite  and  liar.  \Vhere  did  you  get  your  fine  clothes 
from?" 

Said  I  :  "  They  are  all  I  have  left,  for  I  am  poor."  That  seemed  to 
console  her,  as  she  replied  :  "  I  am  glad  of  it,  and  hoi)e  you  will  die 
in  the  poor-house.  If  you  should  die  to-morrow  I  would  not  go  to 
your  funeral,  I  hate  you  so." 

After  pouring  out  upon  me  all  the  abuse  that  her  tongue  was  capable 
of  uttering,  every  other  sentence  of  which  was  :  "  You  can  never 
know  how  much  I  hate  you,"  she  paused  as  I  said  to  her  :  "  I  do 
not  hate  you  ;  on  the  c  jntrary,  I  frequently  pray  for  you,  and  shall 
pray  for  you  now  mot  „•  than  ever,  for  I  think  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to 
carry  such  hatred  against  me  in  the  bottom  of  your  heart." 

To  which  she  replied :  "  I  wish  you  were  dead  ;  I  shall  never  be 
hajipy  until  you  are  dead."  "  I  am  dead  to  the  world,"  1  remarked, 
"for  I  intend  to  become  a  nun,  and  I  hojie  that  my  child  will  have 
the  vocation  too."  Said  she  :  "  I  hope  so,  too,  for  then  (he  breed  will 
die  out."  So  even  this  dau<i;hter  of  Maria  Monk  believes  in  the 
chastity  of  nuns  !  But  her  words  cut  me,  and  I  felt  like  bursting  into 
tears.  It  hurl  me  to  have  her  speak  so  of  my  child.  I  looked  at  her 
to  see  how  she,  a  mother,  could  make  such  a  remark  to  a  mother,  and 
herf;ice  wore  the  expression  of  a  fiend.  It  made  my  blood  nui  cold, 
as  it  brought  back  my  mother  so  vividly,  that  it  seemed  as  though 


she 
for< 
nie 
ser' 

ant 
1  d 
coi 
er 
ha\ 


lady  desired 
to  wait  until 
'turn  by  the 
waiting  and 
and  told  the 

d  that  it  was 
1  at  the  date, 
d  her  let  nie 
opened  the 
of  the  roou), 
back  to  the 
icy. 

:t'd  me  from 
cfii  say  your 
ve  others  ?  " 
ly  with  your 
fine  clothes 

t  seemed  to 
V<>ii  "ill  die 
d  not  go  to 

vas  capable 
'  can  never 
ler  :   "  J  do 

I,  and  shall 
nl  thing  to 

1  never  be 
remarked, 
1  will  have 
breed  will 
't\s  in   the 
>*(ing  into 
<<-'(l  at  her 
)ther,  and 
nm  cold, 
as  though 


I 


OLD   SCENES   REVIVED. 


she  had  risen  before  me,  as  I  used  to  see  her  whe 


583 


enraged.  "  I  have 
forgiven  my  mother,"  I  observed,  "  all  the  cruel  blows  she  ever  gave 
me."  She  replied  :  "  She  never  beat  you  half  as  much  as  you  de- 
served to  be  beaten." 

I  then  recalled  for  tlu  first  time  how  my  sister  used  to  stand  by 
and  look  on  with  complacency  whenever  my  mother  would  beat  me. 
I  do  not  remember  that  she  even  once  pleaded  for  me  ;  but  on  the 
contrary  she  was  frequently  the  cause  of  the  hard  blows  that  my  moth- 
er gave  me.  I  said  to  her  :  "  I  believe  you  tell  the  truth  ;  that  you 
have  always  hated  me.  I  now  recollect  how  you  used  to  hate  me  in 
my  father's  house  when  I  was  called  '  Tick.'  Do  you  remember 
those  days  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply,  but  for  a  moment  became  thoughtful,  while  I 
continued:  "  I  have  not  forgotten  them  ;  I  remember  all."  She  inter- 
rupted me  again  by  ordering  me  out  of  the  house  and  forbidding  me 
ever  to  call  on  her  again. 

1  offered  to  shake  hands  with  her  when  I  left,  but  she  refused.  The 
last  words  I  said  to  her  were  :  "  I  shall  not  cease  to  pray  for  you."  She 
shook  her  head  and  bade  me  begone.  I  forgive  my  sister  as  I  hojjc 
( Jod  may  forgive  me,  and  I  shall  never  cease  to  pray  for  her  conversion. 
It  is  the  only  request  that  I  made  at  the  altar  the  day  I  was  baptized 
which  has  not  yet  been  granted.  (Jod  may  refuse  to  grant  me  that 
recpiest  to  punish  me  for  my  past  sins.  But  so  long  as  my  sister  lives 
I  shall  never  cease  to  hope. 


CHAPTER  CXX. 


„i„ 


CHRISTMAS  AT  THE    CONVENT  COTTAGE. — ST.    GENEVIEVE'S    FEAST. — 

FAITH  REWARDED. 

That  evening,  on  returning  from  my  sister's  to  Manhattanville,  my 
pocket  was  picked  in  the  cars,  and  1  lost  nearly  every  cent  I  had 
The  next  day  1  resolved  to  go  and  tell  my  director  how  I  was  situa- 
ted, and  thought,  if  the  Jesuits  chose  to  abandon  me  because  I  was 
poor,  tlicy  might  go. 

When  1  tt)ld  Father  Merrick,  1  laid  all  the  whole  blame  for  that  dis- 
trust on  Brother  Letique,  saying  that  had  it  not  been  for  that  story  I 


■ 


I* 


584 


MERRY   CHRISTMAS. 


should  have  opened  iny  heart  to  him  long  ago.  He  was  i)rovoked 
with  the  brother,  and  declared  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was 
talking  about.  ^ 

I'allier  Merrick  succeeded  in  collecting  some  monej'  for  me,  and 
gave  me  letters  to  some  Catholic  gentlemen,  retiuesting  them  to  assist 
me.  Before  the  end  of  the  week  I  had  about  four  hundred  dollars. 
He  told  me  that  he  could  do  nnich  more  for  me  if  I  would  only  give 
him  permission  to  tell  the  Rector,  but  that  he  could  not  in  conscience 
do  any  more  for  me  without  his  authority.  Ikit  I  repeated  to  him 
Brother  Letique's  story,  and  told  him  that  I  was  afraid  that  his  Rector 
would  do  as  the  one  had  done  in  France,  and  1  refused  to  let  him 
make  known  to  him  my  necessities.  Being  constantly  harassed  by 
my  creditors,  out  of  the  four  hundred  dollars  that  I  obtained  through 
my  director's  influence  over  two  hundred  went  to  pay  debts. 

Christmas  morning  my  child  caine  running  down  to  the  cottage 
swinging  one  of  her  stockings  in  her  hand  that  the  Ladies  had  filled 
with  candy.  I  was  sad,  for  I  began  contrasting  the  present  festival 
with  that  of  five  years  ago  at  St.  Mande. 

I  began  talking  about  it  to  her ;  but  the  child  preferred  the  present 
Christmas  to  all  the  rest  ;  for  none  of  the  French  nuns  had  ever  given 
her  a  stocking  full  of  candy.  She  hail  a  large  piece  of  pink  satin.  I  pro- 
l)osed  making  her  doll  a  dress.  She  frankly  expressed  to  me  her  dou!)ts 
that  I  was  capable  of  making  a  doll's  dress.  But  I  prevailed  upon 
her  to  let  me  try.  So  I  made  it  ui)  in  real  French  style,  with  a  gcred 
skirt,  trimmed  with  bows,  and  an  overskirt  of  blonde.  When  it  was 
finished,  she  looked  at  it,  and  examined  it  with  speechless,  joyful  sur- 
prise. Then  looking  me  full  in  the  face  she  exclaimed  :  "  Mannna, 
you  liave  not  got  one  bit  oi  common  sense,  but  you  have  a  ,<,V7'(!'/  deal 
o{  extraordinary  sense.  You  could  not  keep  a  room  in  order,  or  make  a 
loaf  of  bread,  but  you  can  build  a  church,  and  make  a  doll's  dress. 
You  can't  do  what  everybody  can  do,  but  you  can  do  what  nol)Oily  else 
can  do,  and  you  are  just  the  mamma  for  me  '  "  At  that  she  sprang 
into  my  arms  and  covered  my  face  with  kisses.  Whenever  I  recalled 
the  spcch,  I  would  begin  to  laugh  ;  and  she  at  las.  said  me  : 
"  Mannna,  I  really  think  that  we  are  both  happier  here  than  in  Krance  ; 
for  I  never  knew  you  to  laugh  like  this  on  C'hristnias  there."  Before 
the  day  was  ended  I  concluded  that  she  was  right,  and  that  tlie 
happiest  Christmas  1  had  ever  known  was  passed  alone  with  my  child 
in  the  convent  cottage. 


provoked 
liat  he  was 

"■  nie,  and 

I"  to  assist 
|d   tlollars. 

only  give 
[onscience 

•d  to  liini 
his  Rector 
o  let  him 

rassed  by 
i^t  through 

L'  cottage 
had  filled 
It  festival 

t?  i)rtsent 
;ver  given 
in.    I  [iro- 
er  doubts 
ilod  upon 
1  age.  red 
L'li  it  was 
>yfwl  sur- 
'\faninia, 
■'■(//  lit-al 
•rinakea 
's  dress, 
'ody  else 
i  sprang 
recalled 
to  nie  : 
I'Vance; 
Before 
hat  the 
ly  child 


ST.    GENEVIEVE'S   DAY. 


585 


The  next  morning  I  began  a  novena  to  St.  Genevieve,  whose  feast 
falls  on  the  third  of  January.  As  Father  Merrick  had  promised  to 
celebrate  Mass  for  me  on  St.  Genevieve's  day  1  determined  to  assist 
at  it.  It  was  to  be  in  St.  Xavier's  Church.  The  morning  of  the  3d  of 
January  was  blustering,  and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  I  rose  at  four 
o'clock  so  as  to  get  ready  to  take  the  first  down  train,  that  left  Har- 
lem at  6.  A.M.  1  put  on  one  of  my  best  dresses,  which  was  a  black 
velvet  suit  made  at  Worth's,  Paris.  I  wanted  to  show  St.  Genevieve 
all  the  interior  and  exterior  devotion  that  I  could,  for  I  was  sanguine 
that  she  would  not  fail  to  obtain  for  me  some  great  grace.  The 
wind  blew  violentl)',  tiie  ground  was  flooded  with  water  and  very 
slip))ery.  I  nnist  have  fiillen  at  least  seven  times  before  I  reached 
I'ourth  Avenue.  I  was  diip[)ing  wet.  The  conductor  helped  me  get 
into  the  car,  and  I  almost  sank  on  the  floor  from  exhaustion.  A  party 
of  roughs  began  to  make  fun  of  me  ;  they  thought  I  was  drunk,  for  I 
heard  one  of  them  say  :  "  There  must  have  l)een  a  wake  around  here 
last  night." 

The  remark  no  sooner  fell  upon  my  ears  than  I  raised  my  heart  to 
God  and  said  :  "  May  this  be  to  me  a  lesson  of  charity,  and  may  1  be  less 
rash  in  future  in  judging  others."  Fatl>er  Merrick  was  so  annoyed  at 
my  coming  out  in  such  a  storm,  exposing  my  health  and  foolishly 
ruining  my  clothes,  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else.  1  assured  him  that  I  should  not  have  dared  to  remain  at  home, 
nor  should  I  have  dared  to  wear  my  ordinary  clothes.  I  should  have 
been  afraid  that  (iod  would  punisli  me  for  my  want  of  Faith.  For 
when  I  was  in  the  world,  if  I  had  an  engagement  to  go  to  a  party  of 
pleasure,  wind  or  weather  never  prevented  me  from  keeping  it;  and 
I  felt  that  I  ought  to  try  and  do  as  much  for  God  as  I  used  to  do  for 
the  world.  At  last  he  said  :  "  If  it  is  God's  work  He  will  take  care 
of  it  and  will  provide  for  you  ;  and  it  is  no  use  to  be  anxious,  for  no 
one  but  (kxl  can  ever  make  anything  out  of  you.  I  have  given  you 
up  long  ago.  One  thing  that  inclines  me  to  believe  that  it  is  God's 
work  is  that  He  often  makes  use  of  the  refuse  of  mankind  to  work  with, 
so  that  His  glory  may  be  the  more  manifest." 

While  he  was  speakirg  a  lay-brother  came  in  and  handed  him  a 
large  letter.  I  noticed  how  the  whole  expression  of  his  face  changed 
as  he  perused  it.  He  asked  me  :  "  I'Vom  whom  do  you  suppose  this  let- 
ter is,  and  what  do  you  think  it  contains  ?  "  1  could  not  imagine.  He 
handed  me  the  letter.  It  was  from  a  lady,  and  contained  one  thou- 
25* 


I 


586 


A   GODSEND. 


sand  and  fifty  dollars  and  was  addressed  to  him,  but  the  money  was 
for  me. 

The  Father  pronoimced  it  a  miracle.  Said  I :  "  St.  Genevieve  in- 
spired it."  ''  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  do  believe  St.  Genevieve  does  take 
care  of  you.  But  this  lady  cannot  afford  to  give  away  such  a  sum, 
and  I  will  not  permit  you  to  accept  it  unless  you  give  her  your  note 
and  bind  yourself  to  pay  it  back."  The  lady  refused  to  give  it  to  me 
as  a  loan.  l^ut  the  Father  would  not  yield,  and  in  accepting  the 
money,  he  made  me  give  her  my  note.  The  graces  I  received  on  St. 
Genevieve's  day  were  an  increase  of  faith,  a  clearer  insiglit  into  the 
truths  of  faith,  and  perfect  peace  of  mind,  which  I  have  ever  since 
retained. 


CHAPTER   CXXI. 


HUMILITY. 

Alt,  these  extraordinary  favors,  that  it  pleased  God  to  shower  upon 
me,  had  not  made  me  a  whit  more  humble.  In  the  latter  |)art  of  Febru- 
ary 1  made  a  novena  to  St.  Perpet  la  aiid  St.  Feliciias,  who  were 
martyrs  in  the  thiid  century.  Their  feast  falls  on  the  7th  of  March. 
J  never  prayed  more  ernestly  than  I  did  on  the  evening  of  the  5th 
of  March.  I  implored  our  Lord  to  guide  and  direct  me  in  the  way 
1  should  go,  and  to  make  His  will  known  unto  me. 

That  night  I  had  a  vision.  I  was  lying  down  several  feet  beneath 
my  director's  feet,  who  was  suspended  in  the  air  over  me  with  his 
hand  raised  in  a  triumphal  gesture,  as  though  he  were  glorying  over 
n)y  abasement,  and  his  own  superiority.  My  bosom  was  filled  with 
the  most  rapturous  delight  and  joy.  When  1  awoke  the  vision  was 
distinct  on  my  mind,  but  all  those  joyful  and  rapturous  sensations 
had  left  me  ;  I  only  retained  the  niemory  of  them.  The  6th  of  March, 
being  the  vigil  of  the  Feast  of  St.  Perpetua,  and  St.  Feliciias,  I  was 
making  a  most  earnest  invocation  to  those  two  saints,  imploring  them 
to  obtain  for  me  the  grace  that  1  most  stood  in  need  of,  when  the 
same  vision  that  f  had  seen  in  my  sleep  arose  before  nic  and  instant- 
ly my  whole  soul  was  filled  with  the  most  rapturous  delight,  the  same 
as  I  had  experienced  in  my  sleep.     "O  beloved  Jesus,"  I  exclaimed, 


money  was 

levieve  in- 
:  does  take 
uch  a  sum, 
■  your  note 
ve  it  to  me 
:epting  the 
ived  on  St. 
lit  into  the 
ever  since 


jwer  upon 
:  of  r'ebru- 
who  were 
jf  Afarch. 
of  the  5th 
II  tlie  way 

t  beneath 
with  Iiis 
ying  over 
illcd  with 
ision  was 
-nsations 
if  March, 
IS,  1  was 
'ing  them 
vhen  the 
instant- 
he  same 
:laimed, 


FALSE   VIEW   OF   HUMILITY. 


587 


"  what  new  grace  is  this  that  thrills  my  whole  being  with  delight  ?  " 
I  heard  an  interior  voice  reply  :  "  It  is  Humility."  I  shouted  with 
rapture,  "  O  beloved  Saviour,  if  this  is  humility,  let  me  ever  be  hum- 
ble." 

My  heart  was  now  overflowing  with  peace  and  joy,  and  J.  felt 
that  God  had  nothing  more  to  give  me,  that  my  heart  could  not  con- 
tain more.  But  these  thoughts  had  hardly  time  to  impress  themselves 
upon  my  mind  when  an  interior  voice  replied  that  there  was  still  a  great- 
er grace  that  God  had  yet  to  bestow  upon  me,  and  that  was  Charity. 

The  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awoke  I  recollected  what  my  director 
had  said  to  me,  that  humility  was  a  virtue  that  I  knew  nothing  about. 
When  he  said  it  to  me,  however,  I  felt  that  I  knew  more  about  it  than 
he  did  ;  but  now  T  was  convinced  that  he  was  right ;  and  I  asked  myself 
what  I  had  always  mistaken  humility  to  be,  and  I  smiled  as  the  truth 
flashed  over  my  mind.  I  iiad  always  believed  that  humUity  and  strong 
iienrs  7iicre  one  ami  the  same  thing;  that  the  depth  of  a  man's  hu- 
niility  all  depended  on  the  state  of  his  nervous  system  ;  that  that  man 
could  stand  the  greatest  humiliations,  who  was  possessed  of  the 
strongest  nerves.  For  in  reading  the  life  of  St.  Ignatius,  when  I  came 
to  that  part  where  the  Saint  used  to  try  the  ^latience  and  resignation  of 
the  members  of  the  Society  by  every  species  of  humiliation,  which 
they  would  bear  with  the  most  angelic  humor,  I  would  say  to  my- 
self, "  What  tremendously  strong  nerves  that  monk  must  have  had  !  "  I 
had  borne  all  the  humiliations  that  I  haa  gone  through  since  the  i8th 
of  March  by  the  force  of  my  will ;  for  I  was  sure  that  God  had  called 
me,  and  I  was  determined  to  persevere  and  was  willing  to  suffer  any- 
thing sooner  than  to  yield.  Whenever  I  would  feel  inclined  to  rebel 
I  would  instantly  check  myself  by  saying  :  "  This  will  never  do  ;  you 
nuist  not  give  up,  but  keep  up  your  nerve."  For  I  could  not  believe 
that  there  ever  existed  such  a  thing  as  a  love  for  humiliation.  But 
the  moment  tlmt  God  in  His  mercy  showered  upon  me  that  ines- 
timable gift,  1  took  pleasure  in  imagining  myself  trodden  upon  and 
despised. 

From  that  day  my  life  at  the  convent  cottage  was  like  a  heaven  on 
earth  ;  for  everything  that  had  been  to  me  a  cause  of  humiliation  and 
a  cross,  now  became  to  me  a  source  of  delight. 


588 


AN   IRON   HAND. 


CHAPTER   CXXII. 

I    LEARN   THAT  I  AM    NOT   TO    SEEK  TO  KNOW  GOD'S  WILI,  IN  EXTRAOR- 
DINARY WAYS. — MY  VOCATION. — HOTEI,    DIEU. 

JMy  health  lia'1  been  failing,  owing,  as  I  thought,  to  the  miserable 
diet  that  1  had  lived  upon  for  months.  At  the  request  of  Father 
Merrick,  as  it  was  against  the  rules  to  take  any  person  to  board  at 
the  convent,  AToth^r  Jones  began  to  send  my  meals  to  me  at  the  cot- 
tage. The  next  time  I  saw  Father  Merrick  he  said  to  me,  "  Now  that 
it  will  not  cost  you  anything  to  live,  I  do  not  see  that  you  need  me 
any  more — for  I  have  led  you  as  far  as  I  can.  1  cannot  do  anything 
more  for  you  spiritually  until  I  become  a  holier  man  myself.  To- 
morrow, you  will  go  to  Father  Perron  to  make  your  confession ; 
Fadier  Perron  is  a  saint,  and  I  believe  that  it  is  God's  will  that  he 
should  take  my  place." 

The  next  day  1  made  my  confession  to  Fathe  Perron.  I  found 
Father  Perron  like  an  iron  hand  that  raised  my  soul  to  (iod. 

He  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  presumption,  and  forbade  me  ever  to 
seek  to  know  God's  will  in  such  extraordinary  ways  as  I  had  made 
use  of  He  told  me  that  I  should  pray  humbly  and  earnestly  to 
know  God's  will,  but  that  I  should  not  dare  to  suggest  to  Him  the 

MANNER    IN    WHICH    He    SHOULD    MAKE  IT  KNOWN  'JO  ME,  but  always 

hold  myself  before  God  in  humble  submission,  and  that  He  would 
not  fail  to  make  His  will  known  to  me.  <v 

If  I  approached  God  with  presumption  He  might  allow  the  devil 
to  deceive  me,  but,  approaching  Him  with  humility,  never. 

God  hacL  not  permitted  me  to  go  astray  heretofore  on  account  of 
my  good-will,  and  because  I  did  not  know  any  better,  but  now  that  I 
was  more  enlightened,  He  would  demand  a  stricter  account  of  my 
conduct. 

On  the  24th  of  May  I  received  a  letter  written  by  order  of  the 
Superior.  In  it  she  expressed  her  regret  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  remain  at  the  convent  cottage  after  the  15th  of  June. 
She  authorized  one  of  the  nuns  to  tell  me,  that  I  had  given  perfect 
satisfaction,  and  that  it  was  no  fiuilt  of  mine  that  obliged  her  to  tell 
me  to  leave. 


^1 


J  EXTRAOR- 

iiiiserable 
of  Father 
o  board  at 
at  the  cot- 
'  Now  that 
u  need  nie 
o  anything 
self.  To- 
onfession ; 
.ill  that  he 

I  found 
:1. 

lie  ever  to 
had  made 
irnestly  to 

Him  thk 
>ut  always 
He  Avoiild 

ft. 

the  devil 

xount  of 
ow  that  I 
nt  of  niy 

-r  of  the 
^possible 
of  June. 
n  perfect 
sr  to  tell 


I  WAS   SICK,   AND   YOU   VISITED  ME. 


589 


As  I  had  very  little  money  left — having  taken  the  larger  portion 
of  the  thousand  dollars  towards  paying  my  debts — my  director 
advised  me  to  go  and  live  like  a  hermit  on  my  farm,  without  even 
the  consolation  of  attending  Mass,  as  I  could  not  afford  to  hire  a 
conveyance  to  take  me  to  church. 

On  Pentecost  Sunday,  while  yet  at  the  convent  cottage,  I  believe 
that  (lod  showed  clearly  to  me  in  prayer  a  much-needed  work  to  be 
done,  and  gave  me  an  intense  desire,  and  impulse  to  do  it. 

I  believe  that  my  vocation  is  to  take  care  of  the  sick. 

The  work  would  extend  to  a  class  that  none  of  the  institutions  in 
this  country  reach  ;  for  its  object  will  be  to  attend  the  sick  of  any 
denomination  at  their  dwellings,  the  same  as  is  done  by  the  Sisters 
of  Hoi)e  in  France. 

An  institution  that  would  supply  so  great  a  want  should  strike  a 
sympathetic  chord  in  every  heart.  There  is  here  a  much-needed  spir- 
itual and  cori)oral  charity  to  be  done  for  the  rich  and  well-to-do, 
wiiich  all  their  wealth  cannot  at  present  command :  and  the  profits 
that  would  result  from  the  nursing  of  the  wealthy  would  be  spent  in 
works  of  charity  and  religion  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor.  Women 
raised  above  the  weakness  and  vanity  of  their  sex  by  the  supernatu- 
ral discipline  of  religion,  with  all  the  natural  tenderness  and  devoted- 
ness  of  their  sex  enhanced  to  a  heroic  degree  by  the  love  of  Him 
for  whose  sake  they  would  perform  their  oflice,  would  no  doubt  com- 
mand the  fervent  gratitude  of  those  to  whose  service  they  Avould  ded- 
icate their  lives.  Many  a  wealthy  person  restored  to  bodily  and 
sometimes  spiritual  health  by  their  ministrations  would  show  his 
gratitude,  not  after  the  i)attern  of  our  war  romances,  by  marrying  his 
nurse — for  she  would  be  already  wedded  for  time  and  eternity  to  a 
heavenly  Bridegroom — but  by  venerating  her  virtues,  by  endeavor- 
ing to  imitate  her  exami)le  in  the  alleviation  of  the  spiritual  and 
physical  ills  that  afflict  humanity,  and  by  teaching  men  the  better 
lessons  of  life,  its  objects,  its  duties,  and  its  possibilities,  which  he 
would  have  learned  from  a  woman  transformed  into  sometiiing  more 
than  human  by  her  pure  and  mystic  consecration  to  the  Divine 
Type  of  our  redeemed  humanity. 

It  is  now  my  fervent  desire  to  fit  myself,  by  God's  grace,  for  this, 
that  I  believe  destined  to  be  the  providential  work  of  my  life.  And 
I  am  confident  that  God  will  raise  up  and  fit  others  to  join  me  in  it. 
Many  an  earnest  soul  whom  1  have  never  known,  but  who  will  fol- 


m 


59-' 


HOPES   AND   INTENTIONS. 


low  ;;^c  In  ^se  pages  tlirough  my  wanderings,  weep  over  my  miser- 
ies, ar.u  rejoi  i  vcr  God's  mercies  to  me,  will  long,  no  doubt,  to 
dedicate  herself  to  diis  work ;  and  the  mystic  tie  that  binds  us  to  the 
Heart  of  the  Divine  Friend  of  humanity,  will  sooner  or  later  in  His 
own  good  time  draw  us  together. 

Jf  the  nuns  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  Black  Nunnery,  in  Montreal,  will 
practise  the  Christian  revenge  of  giving  hosj)itality  for  a  time  to  a 
daughter  of  one  who  wronged  and  outraged  them  so  grievously,  it  is 
my  hope  some  day  to  enter  that  convent  and  hospital;  not  to  join 
that  order,  but  to  get  a  practical  knowledge  of  taking  care  of  the 
sick.  It  maybe  years  before  I  shall  be  prepared  to  enter  there  ;  but 
as  soon  as  I  am  prepared  I  will  rap  at  their  door  and  beg  tiiem  to 
receive  me. 

I  had  not  been  long  under  Father  Perron's  direction,  when  he  was 
appointed  Rector  of  the  Novitiate  in  Canada.  Before  he  left,  the 
Rev'd  Father  recommended  me  to  go  to  Father  Merrick  when  I 
should  need  advice  and  direction.  • 

After  a  while  Father  Merrick  advised  me  to  go  to  another  priest, 
not  a  Jesuit,  in  whose  judgment  he  seemed  to  have  great  confidence. 
My  experience  has  fully  justified  his  opinion.  For  whenever  I  have 
had  occasion  to  go  to  this  clergyman  for  advice,  I  have  always  found 
myself  spiritually  benefited  by  his  counsels,  in  which  I  have  found 
great  firmness  tempered  with  great  moderation. 


o 
r 


CHAPTER  CXXni. 


CHARITV. 

IIkre  I  am  once  more  in  my  little  home  among  those  hills  that  I 
loved  in  my  childhood. 

I  am  living  here  alone  with  God,  whose  presence  everywhere  I 
feel. 

Every  stone,  every  shrub,  and  every  hill-side  breathes  to  me  His 
holy  name,  and  speaks  to  me  of  His  goodness.  I  never  pass  ths 
little  pond,  on  whose  surface  I  see  reflected  St.  Genevieve's  Chapel, 
but  what  its  tiny  waves  whisper  to  me  that  God  is  a  good  Father  : 
and  as  I  stroll  by  the  road-side  and  listen  to  the  singing  birds  and 


>  over  my  miser- 

ig,  no  doubt,  to 

binds  us  to  the 

or  later  in  His 

Montreal,  will 
for  a  time  to  a 
grievously,  it  is 
al ;  not  to  join 
ing  care  of  the 
nter  there  ;  but 
d  beg  them  to 

n,  when  he  was 
ore  he  left,  the 
lerrick  when  I 

another  priest, 
eat  confidence, 
lenever  I  have 
/e  always  found 
I  have  found 


ose  hills  that  I 

everywhere  I 

es  to  me  Hi's 
lever  pass  the 
ieve's  Chapel, 
good  Father  : 
ing  birds  and 


; 


A  VISION   OF   LILIES. 


591 


1 


H 


the  chirping  insects,  I  fed  that  all  nature  joins  my  heart  in  offering 
up  a  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Creator. 

St.  Genevieve's  Chapel  is  still  without  a  pastor,  and  her  deserted 
altars,  as  I  kneel  before  them,  seem  to  implore  me  to  persevere,  that 
they  too  one  day  may  be  blest. 

For  nearly  three  months  my  constant  prayer  has  been,  "  Give  me, 
O  Lord,  tlie  graces  1  most  require,  and  above  all  Charity  ;  and  may  I 
ever  be  faithful  to  the  grace  of  Humility."  And  on  the  3d  of  Octo- 
ber, 1873,  ^'0'^  ''1  II's  mercy  seemed  to  grant  my  request. 

In  my  sleep  I  saw  myself  arranging  an  altar,  on  \vhich  stood  a 
statue  of  the  Messed  Virgin.  I  thought  that  1  had  erected  this  statue 
in  honor  of  the  most  chaste  mother,  "  Mater  Castissima." 
Everything  around  me  breathed  calm  and  peace. 
The  altar,  on  which  the  statue  stood,  was  placed  on  a  broad  thick 
platform.  I  was  cleaning,  and  dusting,  and  trying  to  adorn  this  altar  ; 
but  I  had  no  flowers  ;  and  I  was  turning  sadly  away  to  leave  the 
chapel,  when  the  chai)el  door  opened  of  itself,  and  a  hand  most  radi- 
ant and  beautiful  passed  to  me  four  bunches  of  lilies.  They  were 
transparent  and  of  every  size,  exquisitely  arranged,  and  emitted  a 
soft  light  and  a  most  delicious  odor.  I  took  the  flowers,  and  the 
moment  I  touched  them  my  whole  being  was  filled  with  joy.  The 
door  closed  noiselessly  and  I  hastened  back  to  the  altar,  but  instead 
of  placing  the  lilies  on  the  top  of  the  altar  I  put  them  on  the  plat- 
form on  which  the  altar  stood.  The  two  larger  bunches  I  placed 
next  to  the  altar,  and  the  lilies  gracefully  reclined  on  the  columns 
that  supported  it.  The  two  smaller  ones  I  placed  on  the  two  outer 
corners  of  the  platform.  As  I  stood  there  gazing  on  these  flowers, 
my  whole  being  seemed  to  inhale  ?he  delicious  odor  that  they  ex- 
haled. I  awoke  and  instantly  I  .aised  my  heart  to  God  and  ex- 
claimed :  "  What  a  sweet  dream  !     Always  give  me  such  dreams  !  " 

In  the  morning  I  opened  a  little  book  called  "  The  Voice  of  the 
Saints,"  at  the  following  passage  :  "  O  my  God  !  make  me  know 
Thee,  and  make  me  know  myself." 

I  had  no  sooner  read  those  words,  than  the  altur,  the  statue,  the 
platform,  the  radiant  hand,  the  flowers  and  their  exquisite  odor,  came 
back  to  me  and  I  exclaimed  :  "  O  beloved  Jesus,  teach  me  to  know 
Thee  and  to  know  myself.  Tell  me  what  new  grace  is  this  ?  "  An 
inward  voice  answered  : — "//  is  order." 

I  asked  the  Lord  what  the  four  bunches  of  flowers  meant.     An 


592 


THEIR   PERl'UME   IS   CHARITY. 


interior  voice  replied :  "  The  first  Lunch  was  Purity,  the  second 
Dihgence,  the  third  SinipHcity,  and  the  fourth  Modesty."  "  lUit,"  I 
continued,  "  why  did  I  not  place  them  on  the  altar  instead  of  the 
platform  ?  "     . 

The  answer  was  :  '*  T3ecause  those  virtues  should  repose  on 
Humility.  The  altar  is  your  heart,  and  the  statue  that  adorned  it  is 
Chastity,  but  your  heart  to  keep  chastity  nuist  rest  on  humility,  which 
was  the  broad,  thick  platform." 

"But,"  I  replied,  when  these  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  as 
though  God  Himself  was  speaking  to  me,  "  1  thought  that  purity 
and  chastity  were  the  same  thing." 

The  answer  was  :  *'  You  need  purity  of  intention.  Purity  and 
diligence,  which  were  the  two  larger  bunches,  3'ou  placed  nearest  to 
your  heart,  and  simplicity  and  modesty  you  i)laced  on  the  two  outer 
corners  of  the  platform  ;  for  they  should  be  the  most  apparent  vir- 
tues of  every  chaste  and  humble  soul." 

Yet  I  was  not  satisfied,  and  I  said  complainingly  to  our  Lord : 
"  liut  still  Thou  refusest  me  that  which  my  heart  most  longs  for. 
Why  dost  Thou  still  refuse  me  Charity  ?  1  ask  not  for  those  other 
graces,  all  I  ask  for  is  Charity."  • 

Distinctly  then  the  voice  replied  :  '■'■  The  perfume  of  these  virtues 
is  Charity  ;  when  you  beeoiue  perfectly  humble,  ehaste,  pure,  diligent, 
simple,  and  modest,  then  you  7c<ill  have  eharity.  But  to  ask  me  for 
charity,  without  ivishing  to  cultivate  those  virtues,  is  like  asking  for 
a  victory  without  desiring  to  combat  in  order  to  win  it." 


CHAPTER   CXXIV. 

THE    HEALING    OF    THE    NATIONS. — VAGRANCY    AND    CRIME. — WHERE 

IS   THE    REMEDY  ? 


Who  need  despair  of  having  joy  and  peace  on  earth,  seeing  what 
God  has  deigned  to  do  for  me,  one  of  His  most  imdeserving  crea- 
tures ?  He  asks  but  one  thing  in  exchange  for  those  lights  and 
precious  gifts.  He  asks  our  hearts ;  and  the  moment  we  give  Him 
these.  He  cannot  refuse  us  anything.  IJut  how  can  we  obtain  the 
grace  to  offer  Him  our  hearts  ?  It  is  by  prayer,  persevering  and  fer- 
vent prayer.     Through  prayer  God  has  not  only  given  me  the  light 


'V. 


''"'•'V,   Ihe  second 
altar  instead  of  tlie 


should 


ri^pose    on 


c  that  adorned  it  is 
"»  'uunilitv,  wliich 

"•oiigh  my  n,i„(i  as 
'"I'g'it  that  purity 

'f'on.     Purity  and 

placed  nearest  to 

J  on  the  two  outer 

"ost  apparent  vir- 

"g'y  to  our  J.ord  : 
^'■t  most  longs  for. 
ot  for  those  other 

''  o///n'sc  virtues 
^'•- 1'" re,  diligent, 

^"i  to  ask  mc  for 
•f  like  askinir  /^^ 
it." 


:RrAfE.— WHERE 

th,  seeing  what 
fleserving  crea- 
ose  lights  and 
t  we  g\\',i  Him 
we  obtain  the 
'ei-ing  and  fer- 
1  "ie  the  light 


THE  HEALING   OF  THE   NATI0N3, 


i:  ;;:V:f 


WANTED  :   APOSTLES. 


593 


to  know  what  is  my  duty,  but  by  prayer  He  has  also  given  nic  the 
grace  to  try  to  do  it. 

I  was  one  day  praying  before  God's  Tabernacle,  when  our  Lord 
seemed  to  make  known  to  me  the  mission  of  my  life.  It  was  not 
merely  to  refute  the  calumnies  published  under  my  mother's  name, 
to  show  the  beauty  of  the  religious  life  and  the  divine  symmetry  and 
grandeur  of  Catholic  doctrine  to  those  who  nn'ght  read  this  history. 
Nor  would  my  life  seem  complete  by  the  consecration  of  myself  and  of 
others  to  the  spiritual  and  physical  good  of  humanity  by  our  personal 
service  to  the  sick.  Far  better  even  than  all  this,  I  hope,  that  by 
here  pointing  out  a  great  evil  and  its  remedy,  I  may  induce  many  to 
appreciate  the  magnitude  of  the  evil,  and  to  endeavor  to  supply  the 
remedy  ;  while  I  can  see  for  myself  no  greater  work  of  charity  or 
religion  in  behalf  of  both  the  rich  and  i)oor,  than  to  devote  to  the 
same  object  all  the  earnings  of  my  book  and  my  life. 

Inflamed  as  my  mind  is  now  with  the  love  and  the  possession  of 
the  Truth  ;  filled  as  is  now  my  heart  with  the  love  and  communion 
of  my  Saviour,  whom  I  have  found  in  His  Church  ;  how  can  I  do  else 
than  languish  and  burn  with  the  desire  to  see  this  Truth  made  known, 
and  these  graces  imparted  to  all  of  my  countrymen  ? 

How  many  of  this  great  peoi)le  to  whom  is  committed  so  much  of 
the  world's  destinies,  are  peiishing  \vithout  Christ  in  the  world,  or 
languishing  of  inanition  in  the  midst  of  pretended  plenty,  because  of 
the  false  or  imperfect,  the  mutilated  or  fragmentary  presentation  of 
Him  in  the  various  so-called  Churches  ? 

This  book  of  mine  will,  I  am  sure,  bring  many  to  see  Him  there 
where  He  said  Himself  that  he  would  be  "  till  the  end  of  the 
world  ;"  but  it  is  not  to  any  book,  not  even  to  the  Bible  itself,  that 
He  committed  the  teaching  of  "  all  things  whatsoever  He  had  com- 
manded." It  was  not  to  the  Book  but  to  the  men  that  He  gave  the 
great  commission,  and  to  them  only  tliat  He  gave  the  jiromise  to  he 
iviili  them  till  the  end.  It  is  apostles,  then,  that  we  need,  men  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  Christ,  and  imbued  witii  the  best  and  i)urest  tradi- 
tions of  His  Church — men  trained  in  the  retirement  of  iicr  sanctua- 
'  lies  of  i)iety  and  learning,  and  by  long  and  assiduous  study  and  i)rayer 
brought  into  closest  conununion  with  the  Christ,  and  with  the  noblest 
and  best  of  His  followers,  in  every  land  :.!id  in  every  age.  The  man 
who  would  do  most  to  sup))ly  these,  wouUl  be  truly  a  "prince  of 
apostles,"  and  worthiest  to  sit  in  the  chair  of  Tetcr.     And  Uiose  who 


i  I 


594 


WHAT  ARE  THESE   AMONG  SO   MANY?" 


would  best  co-operate  in  this  work,  would  be  the  best  friends  of 
Christ,  the  best  children  of  His  Church,  the  greatest  benefactors  of 
the  world.  It  is  such  men  that  we  need,  not  nierel)  to  bring  the 
world  to  a  knowledge  of  Catholic  truth,  but  also  to  purify  the  Church 
herself,  to  infuse  a  new  spirit  of  charity  and  zeal  and  self-sacrifice 
into  her  pastors  of  high  and  low  degree,  and  to  remove  the  ignorance 
and  \'ice,  in  which  too  many  of  her  children  are  rotting.  Such 
reformation  in  pastors  and  people  would  remove  one  of  the  greatest 
obstacles  to  the  si)eedy  conversion  of  the  world. 

There  are  thousands  of  children  growing  up  in  our  large  cities 
grossly  ignorant  of  the  truths  of  religion,  and  worse  than  indifferent 
to  the  practice  of  virtue.  From  these  "Arabs  of  the  streets"  are 
daily  recruited  the  ranks  of  the  criminal  classes  ;  and  until  they  are 
converted  it  will  be  vain  to  hope  for  the  suppression  of  crime  or  va- 
grancy. The  only  way  to  destroy  or  even  diminish  vagra.icy  is  to 
prevent  it.  If  we  could  only  instruct  the  rising  generation  in  the 
truths  of  religion,  and  induce  them  to  obey  its  precepts  and  follow 
its  counsels,  we  would  have  .solved  all  the  great  social  and  political 
problems  of  the  age.  The  mere  education  of  the  intellect,  instead 
of  being  a  preventive  of  crime,  is,  in  many  cases,  an  incentive  to 
it.  Religious  development  alone  can  ever  make  man  better  and 
raise  the  standard  of  public  morality.  The  priests  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  in  the  sacrament  of  orders  a".;d  the  mission  they  receive  from 
the  Church,  have  divinely  sealed  certificates  as  the  teachers  of  reli- 
gion. But  unfortunately  the  number  of  these  teachers  is  so  dis])ro- 
portionate  to  the  vast  number  of  sick  and  hungry  souls  who  clamor 
for  spiritual  food  and  medicine,  that  they  can  do  but  little  towards 
the  healing  of  the  world ;  and  we  must  confess,  too,  that  many  of  them 
are  but  poorly  fitted  for  their  work.  But  how  is  this  great  want  to 
be  supplied?  God  graciously  vouchsafed  me  a  partial  answer  to 
that  question  by  inspiring  me  to  api)eal  to  every  reader  of  this  book 
and  every  friend  of  true  jjrogress  to  helji  to  iound  and  endow  col- 
leges in  which  aspirants  for  the  i)riesthood  can  be  educated  and 
trained,  and  in  sufficient  numbers,  fi)r  their  lofty  mission.  That  they 
may  be  fitted  for  what  is  no  small  portion  of  their  ,vi  red  duty,  the 
instructing  the  young  in  religion  and  morality,  it  was  given  me  to  sec 
the  necessity  of  having  a  free  school  attached  to  every  college  and 
seminary,  in  which  these  ecclesiastical  students  may  receive  practical 
instruction  in  the  simple  yet  difficult  task  of  teaching  the  catechism, 


pa 

rui 


Triends  of 
factors  of 
mug  the 
le  Chiirdi 
f-saciifice 
ignorance 
ig.  Such 
e  greatest 

ige  cities 
ndififerent 
eets"  are 

they  are 
me  or  va- 
L'lcy  is  to 
m  in  the 
k1  follow 

political 
t,  instead 
entive  to 
-ttcr  and 
Catholic 
iive  from 
5  of  reli- 
)  dispro- 
3  clamor 

towards 
of  them 
want  to 
swcr  to 
lis  book 
low  col- 
ed   and 
lat  they 
iity,  the 
'-  lo  see 
-ge  and 
ractical 
.'cliism, 


■ 


4 


SHEEP  WITHOUT  A  SHEPHERD. 


595 


and  presenting  the  sublime  truths  of  religion  in  an  attractive  form  to 
youthful  minds.  In  these  seminaries  a  taste  for  literature  should  be 
cultivated,  so  that  when  the  student  becomes  a  priest  he  can  always 
find  companions  and  friends  in  his  books.  Experience  has  proved 
that  the  priest,  esi)ecially  in  a  lonesome  country  parish,  uiio  is  not 
fond  of  study  and  reading,  runs  the  risk  of  becoming  worldl)',  and 
losing  the  spirit  of  his  calling. 

The  want  of  more  priests  in  the  country  districts  is  even  more 
palpably  felt  than  in  cities.  When  I  think  of  the  condition  of  the 
rural  pojjulation  abroad,  where  each  little  church  has  its  pastor,  my 
heirt  sickens  all  the  more  at  the  condition  of  those  in  my  country, 
and  I  have  frequently  prayed  God  to  come  to  their  relief. 

Often  have  I  heard  it  said  that  much  of  the  misery  in  our  popu- 
lous citigs  could  be  averted  if  the  ])oorer  classes  would  go  into  the 
country  and  cultivate  the  soil.  But  they  prefer  to  live  in  swarms  in 
the  city,  and  to  submit  to  all  the  privations  that  the  direst  poverty 
imposes,  rather  than  live  in  the  country  where  they  could  find  plenty 
of  work,  and  provide  for  themselves  and  families.  For  they  are 
naturally  and  justly  reluctant  to  go  where  there  is  no  priest  nor 
church,  where  their  children  would  be  exiiosed  to  the  danger  of  losing 
their  faith. 

Even  when  they  go  into  th^  country  where  there  is  a  priest,  he 
usually  has  charge  of  several  churches,  in  a  circuit  sometimes  of  per- 
haps forty  miles,  where  many  poor  souls  die  without  tlie  sacraments, 
and  their  children  are  brought  up  in  ignorance  of  the  religion  that 
their  parents  profess.  I  have  fre(]uently  (luestioned  Catholic  chil- 
dren in  the  country  concerning  their  catechism,  and  their  ignorance 
even  of  the  nature  of  the  Mass  itself  was  something  incredible. 

Perhaps  once  in  three  c  four  weeks  ihe  ])riest  comes  among  them, 
and  celebrates  Mass.  So.  letimes  he  explains  to  them  the  gos[)el  of 
the  day  ;  but  oftener  he  says  nothnig  ;  for  he  is  obliged  to  hasten  away 
to  another  station,  which  may  be  ten  miles  distant.  CJo  to  the  bishoj) 
and  ask  him  to  remedy  all  this.  He  will  tell  you,  that  he  has  no 
])riest  to  give  you,  fr  it  a  i)'"^st  would  not  have  enough  to  do  in  one 
small  villai:;e,  and  that  th     peojjle  are  not  able  to  support  one. 

If  we  had  a  greater  number  of  zealous  priests  I  believe  that  God 
would  give  us  the  means  to  supjjort  them.  Let  us  try  and  raise  a 
fund  for  the  maintenance  of  priests,  who  are  sent  to  parishes  where 
the  i)eople  are  not  able   to  support  one.     But  let  us  have  colleges, 


m^'' 


596 


FATHERS   OF   CHRIST  S   FAMILY. 


where  priests  will  be  specially  fitted  for  heroic  sacrifices  for  the  benefit 
of  souls.  If  there  were  more  zealous  priests  scattered  over  our 
country,  who  would  devote  theinselves  to  teacliing  religion  and  mo- 
rality to  the  poor,  nine-tenths  of  tlic  misery  and  crime  would  be 
averted.  They  would  draw  tliousands  from  the  cities,  who  are  living 
there  with  idle  hands,  and  are  a  burden  alike  to  the  Church  and  the 
State,  into  the  country  districts,  where  they  could  become  honorable 
and  independent  tillers  of  the  soil. 

Mad  we  priests  in  sufficient  numbers,  properly  trained  for  their 
work,  and  filled  with  love  of  their  Master  and  the  souls  foe  whom  He 
died,  they  would  not  content  themselves  with  the  weekly  lessons  of 
the  Sunday-school,  and  of  the  Sunday  sermon,  but  they  v.oiild  gather 
the  children,  and  the  adults  also,  several  times  during  the  week,  or 
even  every  day,  to  exercises  of  piety  and  to  religious  and- moral  in- 
struction. For  the  influence  of  the  Sunday  instruction  and  tiie  Sun- 
day worshi])  are  too  readily  forgotten  during  the  week.  These  fre- 
quent instruction  could  be  roioi^riately  united  with  parochial 
evening  prayer,  or,  better  still,  v  !■.  ;norning  prayer  and  Mass  ;  for 
religious  instruction  and  worship  would  purify  and  prepare  the  mind 
for  the  reception  of  knowledge,  and  strengthen  and  cheer  the  heart 
to  bear  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 

Many  will  say  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the  parents  to  attend  to  the 
religious  instruction  of  their  children.  Notiiing  n^ore  true.  IJut 
many  |)arents  either  have  not  the  knowledge  or  have  not  the  inclina- 
tion to  impart  this  instruction  j^roperly.  Who,  then,  but  the  priest, 
Will  teach  these  teachers,  when  they  are  ignorant,  and  stimulate  them, 
when  remiss,  and  who  else  will  in  either  case  sui)ply  the  deficiency, 
by  intelligent  and  faithful  instruction  ?  llesides  there  attaches  to  the 
te.'iliing  of  the  true  priest  a  charm,  an  authority,  and  a  benediction, 
that  belong  to  noni'  other,  and  that  m  ik  ■  young  and  old  alike  look 
lip  into  his  sacerdotal  face,  and  call  him  "  l''a»!i  1.  '  It  is  the  charm 
c)l  Hii.i  iround  whom  the  children  clustered  of  old,  a. id  who  said  : 
'•  Suffer  little  ciuldren  to  come  to  me,  and  forbid  tlvjm  no'  ;  for  of 
iiu:'"  is  *he  kingtiom  of  Heaven." 

iiesides,  by  instructing  the  children  of  the  present  generation  we  ob- 
'.  iate  lo  a  great  extent  the  difficulty  for  the  future.  When  we  ed;calt. 
a  child  we  educate  the  future  parent.  When  we  instruct  a  boy  we 
enlighten  the  man,  and  wiien  we  instruct  a  girl  we  enlighten  the 
family.     Our  country  is  full  of  prisons,  reformatories,  houses  of  refiige, 


me 

vici 

era 

cle: 

ran 

wit 


STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 


597 


lie  benefit 
over  our 
and  mo- 
would  be 
are  livin'f 
1  and  the 
ioi,orabIe 

for  their 
honi  He 
-'ssons  of 
1(1  gather 
week,  or 
moral  in- 
the  Sini- 
hese  fre- 
larochial 
fass  ;  for 
he  mind 
the  heart 

1(1  to  the 
c.      ]5ut 

inclina- 
e  priest, 
te  thein, 
iciency, 
•s  to  the 
diction, 
ke  look 

charm 
J  said  : 
;  for  of 

we  ob- 
ci^icatc. 
^oy  we 
Ml  the 
•efuge, 


U 


inebriate  asylums,  in  fact,  with  every  accommodation  to  receive  the 
vicious  and  the  degraded.  But  these  institutions  do  not  serve  to 
eradicate  the  evil.  It  is  not  only  our  duty  but  our  best  jiolicy  to 
cleanse  the  source  from  which  these  vices  spring,  and  to  pluck  up  the 
rank  roots  of  the  evil,  instead  of  wasting  our  energies  against  eftects 
without  attacking  the  cause. 


CHAPTER  CXXV. 

WHAT     PROTESTANTS     MUST    BE    PREPARED     FOR. 

I  HAVE  now  been  living  more  than  six  years  among  Catholics,  with 
very  rare  facilities  to  study  both  priests  and  nuns,  and  in  my  heart  of 
hearts,  I  am  sure  that  my  mother's  book  is  a  lie.  I  do  not  require  my 
sister's  word  for  it,  nor  n.y  mother's  confession. 

But  again,  1  speak  from  my  own  experience,  when  I  say  that  the  prid'' 
and  indolence  of  some  j^riests  are  the  stumbling-block  of  Protestants, 
and  may  not  inapprt)i)riately  be  called  the  leprosy  of  the  Church. 

If  (iod  had  not  bestowed  ujion  me  extraordinary  g  ces,  and  if  I 
had  not  been  well  enlightened  in  regard  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Catho- 
lic Church,  I  should  have  lost  my  faith  since  my  return  to  this  country. 
This  would  of  course  have  been  due  chietiy  to  my  own  jiride  and 
weakness.  But  God  in  His  mercy  would  not  pei'iiit  me  to  lose  the 
greatest  treasure  that  He  has  bestowed  upon  mai.  —faith  in  Him  and 
in  His  Church.  He  would  not  permit  it,  for  He  wished  to  make  me 
an  instrument  of  His  glory.  To  that  alone  do  I  attribute  the  extra- 
ordinary graces  that  He  has  given  me  ;  and  if  I  have  faith  to  day  I 
owe  to  it  His  mercy  and  not  to  my  own  strength  of  will. 

Whenever  you  see  a  Catholic  stay  away  from  church,  because  he 
dislikes  the  priest,  you  may  mark  him  down  a  n  ignorant  or 
wortiiless  fellow,  and  one  who  is  not  to  be  trusted  ;  »or  it  is  his  tluty 
to  go  to  church  and  adore  his  Lord  and  receive  Him,  no  matlrr 
whether  he  likes  or  not  the  priest,  who  offers  u|)  the  sacrifice,  (iod 
will  not  make  him  answer  for  the  priest's  defects,  and  will  certainly 
punish  him  for  his  own. 

1  hope  Cod  m  His  mercy  will  forgive  me  if  1  i)resume  to  sa\  a 
word  of  His  servants  and  ministers.     Did  not  our  Lord  teach  us 


59« 


I   HAVE   GIVEN   YOU   AN   EXAMPLE. 


humility  by  word  and  by  example  ?  Should  not  a  priest  above  all 
others  try  to  imitate  his  Master  ?  How  can  he  expect  those  whom  he 
is  called  to  watch  over,  enlighten,  and  serve  to  be  humble,  unless  he 
is  humble  himself? 

It  is  clear  that  the  priest  should  stoop  to  poor  weak  souls  to  take  them 
by  the  hand  and  draw  them  out  of  the  mire  of  sin,  and  that  he  should 
be  the  last  to  sink  them  by  his  severity  and  the  asperity  of  his  language. 
I  say  this  with  all  reverence  for  the  sacred  othce,  but  with  no  fear  of 
the  dis[)leasure  of  those  whom  it  may  wound.  I  write  not  to  please 
them,  l)ut  to  draw  souls  to  (iod  ;  and  I  feel  it  to  be  a  charity  to  jjoint 
out  to  such  souls  a  stumbling-block  in  their  way  towards  the  light, 
and  to  show  them  that  they  should  iiot'  turn  back  at  meeting  it,  but 
step  over  it  and  go  on.  I  once  said  to  one  of  this  kind  of  priests, 
who  was  knocking  down  before  him  everything  that  he  tliought 
savored  of  Satan  and  sin:  "You  do  not  make  any  proselytes."  "I 
do  not  wish  to,"  he  replied  ;  "all  I  care  for  is  to  look  after  those  I 
have.'' 

I  condemn  such  a  sentiment  in  a  priest,  and  prefer  to  agree  with 
St.  Paul,  who  tried  to  be  all  things  to  all  men  to  draw  all  to  God. 

St.  Teresa  prayed,  "  O  my  (rod,  have  pity  on  tliose  who  have  no 
pity  on  themselves,  and  who  in  the  excess  of  their  blindness  do  not 
wish  to  go  to  Thee.     Come  riiou  Thyself  to  them." 

Are  we  askiiig  more  than  we  have  a  right  to  ask,  when  we  implore 
thfjse  who  protons  to  be  the  servants  of  that  Divine  Master,  to  come 
to  Ljin?iers,  and  n*  t  wait  for  sim.ers  to  come  to  them? 

The  whol;.'  trc'lx  can  be  told  in  a  few  words;  if  the  priests  would 
but  be  iiuiiib'-j  the;,  would  be  perfect ;  and  that  one  defect  in  the  priest 
bars  out  more  sinners  from  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than    nything  else. 

"•.Vhat  do  Miners  want  to  know  about  doctrines,  and  what  faith  have 
they  in  them,  when  they  see  those  who  teach  them  yield  so  little 
fruit  ? 

Many  who  will  read  this  book  will  feel  drawn  towards  the  Catholic 
Church  ;  aiidthey  will  attend  the  first  Catholic  church  that  they  can 
find.  lUit  they  may  chance  to  go  to  one  that  is  crowded  to  excess, 
and  find  themselves  nearly  suffocated  during  the  service.  Or  they 
may  go  to  another,  where  the  priest  will  speak  to  his  congregation  in 
the  imjjerious  tones  of  a  master,  radier  than  the  loving  manner  of  a 
father;  and  1  can  see  them  turn  away  disgusted. 

But  1  will  say  to  them  that  in  Catholic  countries  die  churches  arc 


PREJUDICE  AND   COWARDICE. 


599 


above  all 
wlioiii  he 
unless  he 


take  them 
le  should 
anguage. 
o  fear  of 

to  please 
to  jjoint 
le  light, 

»g  it,  but 

f"  I'riests, 
tliought 

tes."   <' X 

those  I 
ree  with 

c;od. 

lave  no 
5  do  not 

ini|)Iore 
o  come 

s  AVOllld 

e  priest 
ig  else. 
Ii  have 
^  little 

itholic 
-y  can 
xcess, 
•  they 
ion  in 
■  of  a 

s  are 


not  so  crowded,  being  larger  and  more  numerous,  for  tlie  reason  that 
thi;  wealthy  classes  hel[)  to  su[)port  them.  But  here  it  is  the  poor 
who  support  the  churches  and  who  build  them  too. 

Let  those  who  would  attend  church  if  they  could  be  be  better  ac- 
commodated, help  to  build  larger  and  more  churches  ;  and  let  those 
'  who  turn  from  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  because  they  have  chanced 
to  fall  in  with  an  imperfect  priest,  take  heed  how  they  quarrel  with 
Christ,  because  of  the  imperfections  of  His  instruments.  To  remain 
aloof  from  the  Catholic  Church  merely  to  gratify  their  prejudice  or 
their  love  of  ease,  were  a  criminal  slight  to  Him  who  will  one  day  have 
to  judge  them,  and  who  has  said,  "  He  who  despises  you,  despises 
me."  Let  them  first  pray  that  Ciod  would  make  them  humble  and 
earnest  themselves,  and  then  that  in  His  mercy  He  would  give  us 
humble  and  zealous  priests ;  and  let  them  contribute  of  their  abuix- 
dance  to  provide  and  maintain  them. 

Again  there  are  many  who  will  be  convinced  that  the  Catholic 
Church  alone  possesses  the  true  faith,  but  who  will  not  have  the  cour- 
age to  brave  the  opinion  of  neighbors  less  enlightened  tlian  them- 
selves, and  will  be  ashamed  to  have  their  nciglibors  see  them  going  to 
church  with  the  Irish.  Let  me  say  to  such  persons  that  CJod  demands 
of  them  a  sacrifice  of  d.eir  pride  and  human  respect,  to  give  them  a 
crown  of  eternal  glory.  AV'hat  folly,  and  what  cowardice  to  refuse  to 
make  the  sacrifice  !  IJut  how  great,  alas,  is  the  number  of  the  fools 
and  cowards  !  How  many  do  I  know  whom  such  considerations 
alone  restrain  from  embracing  the  Catholic  Faitli.  1  have  hoard  them 
say,  "  I  cannot  stand  the  priests  ;  "  "I  cannot  stand  the  Irish."  Let 
me  ask  them,  if  on  the  day  of  judgment  they  can  better  stand  the 
frowns  of  an  angry  Cod  ? 

Many  of  those,  who  cannot  endure  to  sit  beside  the  jjoor,  to  hear 
tile  word  of  Cod  in  this  world,  might  be  glad  to  exchange  places  with 
tliem  in  the  next. 

Often  have  I  heard  the  opponents  of  Catholicity  accuse  the  priests 
of  cupidity  and  avarice.  15ut  what  use,  I  would  ask  tiieir  critics,  do 
the  priests  make  of  the  money  they  receive,  and  which  they  urge  the 
people  to  give  ?  Certainly  they  cannot  accuse  them  of  api>Iying  it 
to  personal  luxuries  and  scjuandering  it  ujion  themselves.  No  one 
will  deny  that  as  a  rule  they  live  simply,  with  frugality  and  economy, 
and  that  the  contrary  is  the  exception.  In  fact,  the  cheapness  and 
the  economy  of  the  Catholic,  system,  for  the  teaching  of  religion  and 


6oo 


HEROISM   OF  THE   PRIESTHOOD. 


h 


the  doing  of  works  of  charity,  is  notorious,  and  freely  admitted  in  our 
own  country  by  many  who  are  not  Catholics.  And  in  Catholic 
Francv',  where  the  government  gives  salaries  to  the  ministers  of  relig- 
ion, a  larger  salary  is  paid  to  the  Protestant  minister,  than  to  the 
Catholic  i)riest. 

The  priesthood,  conscious  of  its  divine  nnssion,  readily  and, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  rises  to  the  heroic  even  in  nien  otlierwise 
very  imperfect  when  a  clear  duty  urges.  They  will  then  at  a 
moment's  notice  sul)ject  themselves  not  only  to  inconvenience  and 
discomfort,  but  to  the  greatest  peril  for  their  brethren.  And  so 
wc  find  the  priest  sufitering  great  hardship  to  bring  the  consolation 
of  Christ  to  every  departing  soul,  and  risking  hit  life  in  the  midst  of 
pestilence  ;  when  others  who  have  no  such  connnission  to  obey,  and 
no  su<.h  consolation  to  give,  begin  prudently  to  arguc,  ihat  their  hrst 
duty  is  to  their  fLimilies,  especially  as  on  the  ot/ur  hand,  they  can  do  so 
little  good  to  the  sufferers.  Again  it  is  this  same  readiness  of  the 
priest  wlien  called  upon  to  sacrifice  himself,  as  well  as  so  many  other 
reasons,  that  enables  the  keen-witted  pagan  of  the  Eastern  lands,  and 
the  simple  savage  of  our  own,  to  distingui.sh  between  the  Catliolic 
apostle,  and  the  well-dressed,  well-paid  respectabii:  gentleman  and 
man  of  fanu'ly,  who  calls  himself  a  missionary,  Tiie  one  penetrates 
alone  but  fearlessly  into  the  vr-vy  heart  of  every  pagan  land,  making 
a  perpetual  sacrifice  of  the  dearest  natural  ties  that  bind  him  to 
country,  to  home,  and  to  family,  becomes  the  loving  and  revered 
spiritual  father  of  numerous  converts,  and  very  frecjuently  meets  the 
martyrdom  of  torture  and  death  after  his  Master's  exami)le,  for  which 
he  has  been  sighing.  The  other  cannot  travel  without  tiie  retinue  of 
wife  and  children,  prudently  keeps  within  easy  distance  of  the  pro- 
tection of  his  country's  Hag,  and  manages  very  rarely  to  come  near 
enough  to  the  martyrdom,  that  nobody  has  ever  accused  Iiini  of  sigh- 
ing for, 

"  Oh,"  cry  their  accusers,  "  we  know  all  that ;  but  the  priests  are 
ever  seeking  to  enrich  the  Church."  This  is  hardly  a  true  state- 
ment of  the  case.  They  are  not  seeking  to  enrich  the  Church,  but 
rather  to  increase  iier  efficiency,  as  the  teacher  of  true  religion,  and 
the  minister  of  heavenly  charity,  and  tluis  enable  her  to  bring  price- 
less and  eternal  blessings  to  the  souls  of  men,  while  civilizing  the 
world  and  alleviating  all  the  ills  of  humanity. 

Every  true  servant  of  God,  and  every  true  friend  of  humanity 


1 


I'liitted  in  our 
ill   Catholic 

jstersof  relig- 
than  to  tlie 

readily  and, 
en  otherwise 
1    then    at   a 
■eniencc  and 
11-     And    so 
consolation 
tile  midst  of 
to  obey,  and 
iiat  their  first 
licy  fan  do  so 
diness  of  the 
.^  many  other 
rn  lands,  and 
the  Catholic 
ntleman  and 
le  penetrates 
land,  making 
Ijiiid   him   to 
and  revered 
ly  meets  the 
le,  for  which 
e  retinue  of 
of  the  pro- 
)  come  near 
him  of  sigh-    ' 

'  iiriests  are 
true  state- 
'luirch,  hut 
ligion,  and 
iring  price- 
I'ilizing  the 

humanity 


MATERIAL   AIDS. 


6oi 


N. 


should  be  zealous  to  see  those  doctrines  propagated  throughout  the 
world,  that   Christ  bequeathed  to  His   Church  and  sealed  with  His 
blood  ;  and  the  priests  are  but  teaching  and  urging  the  fulfilment  of 
a  most  sacred  duty  when  they  ask  us  to  use  all  eit'orts  for  that  etifect. 
The  money,  therefore,  which  the  priests  ask  you  to  give  them,  is 
but  the  means  which  the  Church  needs  to  enable  her  to  propagate 
those  doctrines  and   to  build  and  support  places  for  God's  worship 
and  the  administration  of  His  sacraments,  and  for  the  doing  of  nuich-  • 
needird  works  of  Christian  charity.     Those  who  have  read  my  book 
with  attention  nuist  know  what  those  doctrines  are.     Let  me  ask 
them  :    In  what  way  money  can   be  beter  employed  than  by  giving  it 
to  the  Church,  where  it  is  used  to  aid  the  propagation  of  the  Faith  in 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  bringing  poor,  destitute  souls  to  receive 
the  light  of  truth  and  the  blessings  of  His  grace  in  reformation  and 
holiness  of  life  ?      Whenever  we  grudge  our  money  to  enrich  the 
Church  we  are  grudging  to  have  such  instructions  given  to  poor  sin- 
ful souls,  as  were  given  to  me  by  Bishop  Semeria  and  the  cure  of  St. 
Mande.     15ut  the  Church  does  not  increase  in  strength  and  might 
by  means  of  wealth  alone.     It  is  only  by  its  conquest  of  poor  sinful 
souls,  whom  it  saves  from  perdition,  that  it  becomes  great.     It  asks 
wealth,  that  it  may  have  the'  means  of  reaching  men's  souls  ;  that  by 
oftering  their  hearts  to  God  they  may  increase  that  kingdom  of  Christ 
here  below,  for  which  alone   He  became  man,  and  for  which  He 
laid  down  His  life.     It  is  by  annexing  hearts  and  souls  to  Christ  that 
the    Church    becomes   rich,  mighty,  and  strong.     By  giving  to   His 
Church,  to  enable  her  to  do  this  work,  we  not  only  receive  a  rich 
reward  throughout  all  eternity,  but  we  secure  God's  protection  over 
us  here.      No  one  ever  yet  became  poorer  by  giving  lo  God ;  and 
we  give  to  God  when  we  help-  to  sui)port  His  Church. 


CONCLUSION. 

I  HAVE  said  many  severe  things,  but  true,  about  my  mother. 

Too  well  I  know  that  the  world  will  throw  the  reproach  in  my  face  : 
"But   she  was  your  mother,  and  God  commands  us  to  honor  our 
father  and  mother." 
26 


602 


WHO   IS  MY   MOTHER  ? 


|i  ^ 


'II 


To  this  I  must  answer:  "But  the  same  God  has  said,  'Parents, 
provoke  not  your  children  to  wrath.'  It  is  not  that  1  liate  the 
memory  of  my  father  or  my  mother  ;  but  I  liate  injustice  and  cal- 
umny. F.very  one  would  point  the  t'mger  of  scorn  at  a  child  who 
who  would  refuse  to  licpiidate  the  temporal  debts  of  a  parent ;  and  is 
it  not  just  as  sacred  a  duty  for  one  to  render  justice  to  those  whom 
its  i)arents  have  morally  wronged?  Are  material  rights  always  to 
triumph,  to  the  exclusion  of  moral  ones  ?  Am  1  to  refuse  justice  to 
others,  merely  because  it  was  my  mother  who  wronged  them  ?  No, 
no,  a  thousand  times  no ;  that  would  be  misinterpreting  (lod's  most 
righteous  commands.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  child  to  honor  its  parents, 
but  not  to  condone  their  sinful  acts,  especially  when  by  those  acts 
they  have  tried  to  trami)le  on  and  deface  that  which  God  has  taught 
us  to  hold  most  sacred. 

It  is  also  true  that  the  moment  a  mother  neglects,  ill-treats,  and 
corrui)ts  her  child,  she  to  a  great  extent  forfeits  her  title  to  that 
endearuig  name.  There  are  mothers,  who,  after  ill-treating  and 
neglecting  their  children,  abandon  them  !  A  Sister  of  Charity  picks 
them  out  of  the  street,  feeds,  nurses,  and  educates  them.  Which  is 
the  mother?  the  unnatural  being,  who  abandons  them  ;  or  the  Sister 
who  rescues  them  ?  Go  to  the  Foundling  Asylum,  and  watch  that 
woman,  as  she  drops  her  child  at  the  door;  is  she  the  mother  ?  or  is 
the  Sister,  who  receives  it  ?  I  never  see  a  conununity  of  Sisters 
taking  care  of  little  waifs,  but  what  my  heart  goes  out  towards  them, 
and  I  feel  that  there  is  still  on  earth  a  far  higher  and  more  blessed 
motherhood,  than  that  of  mere  physical  generation. 

I  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  all  Christian  mothers  and  ask  them,  who 
is  my  mother  ?  I  can  already  'near  their  reply  :  "  that  the  Catholic 
Church  is  my  mother  ; "  tor  it  was  she,  who  took  me  by  the  hand 
and  raised  me  out  of  the  abyss  of  spiritual  misery,  into  which  the 
faults  of  my  parents  had  helped  to  plunge  me.  It  was  through  her 
that  God  first  gave  light  to  my  soul,  which  she  has  nourished  by  her 
teachings,  until  at  last  she  has  wedded  me  to  my  God.  If  the  mother 
who  bore  me  has  claims  on  me,  the  mother  who  saved  me  has  still 
greater  ;  and  it  is  to  satisfy  these  that  God  in  His  justice  and  mercy 
inspired  me  to  write  this  book. 

The  critics  of  the  book  will  find  severest  things  to  say  of  the 
personal  history  of  the  autlior,  and  from  her  own  showing.  But  they 
will  not  make  me  out  as  bad  as  I  know  myself  to  have  been.     I 


WHAT   I   HAVE   LEARNED. 


603 


•# 


would  have  told  more  of  my  niisL'ries,  if  it  roiild  have  served  anygooil 
I)ur|)osc  ;  and  I  would  not  tell  less,  because  I  would  encourage  those 
who  !\ ',c  sutfcred,  and  groped,  and  wandered,  and  sinned  like  me,  to 
seek  pardon  and  peace,  where  I  have  foimd  them. 

1  have  livotl  over  again  in  these  i)ages  the  follies  of  my  life,  and 
dwelt  upon  frivolities,  upon  which  with  (Jod's  grace  I  have  turned 
my  back  forever,  to  lead  others  throngh  them,  as  I  have  been  led 
myself,  to  th«.  knowledge  of  the  truth  and  the  love  of  the  only  life 
that  is  worth  living.  May  it  please  (lod  to  make  such  portit)ns  of 
my  history  effective  warnings  to  those  of  my  readers  who  have  not 
yet  found  by  their  own  experience  the  bitterness  of  sin  and  the 
emptiness  of  the  world  ;  so  that  of  no  one  of  them  may  it  ever  be  said 
with  truth  :  "  It  is  thy  own  history," — '■'■  de  tefabula  narratur!'  Let 
none  presume  to  imitate  my  follies,  for  Ciod  is  just ;  but  let  those 
who  have  erred,  still  hope,  for  He  is  merciful. 

1  have  erred  nuich,  but  I  have  learned  to  pray.  I  have  prayed,  and 
God  could  not  resist  me  ;  for  as  the  nun  Madam  Xavier  once  said  to 
me,  "  Prayer  is  stronger  than  God,  since  He  cannot  resist  it ;  "  by 
prayer  we  as  it  were  conciuer  God,  and  we  force  Him  to  grant  us 
that  of  which  we  are  most  undeserving. 

One  simple  prayer  rising  from  a  heart  filled  with  faith,  ho[)e,  and 
charity,  can  elfect  more  good  in  a  day  than  the  efforts  of  an  indus- 
trious and  intellectual  mind  can  accomplish  byhiunan  prudence  alone 
in  years.  If  we  pray,  it  is  (rod  who  acts  in  us  ;  and  witliout  prayer 
it  is  merely  the  creature  who  toils.  But  prayer  is  not  merely  a  repe- 
tition of  words  pronounced  by  the  lips  alone  ;  prayer  is  that  outburst 
of  interior  devotion  which  comes  from  a  heart  and  soul  raised  to 
God,  and  purified  by  His  presence  and  communion. 

Prayer  need  not  interfere  with  any  othei  duty.  Work  of  every  kind, 
when  it  is  in  the  line  of  duty,  if  referred  to  God,  is  the  most  acceptable 
kind  of  worshii)ful  prayer.  It  is  an  offering  not  merely  of  the  soul, 
but  of  the  entire  jjcrson  to  God.  We  ought  to  ask  Ciod  to  teach  us 
how  to  pray ;  for  He  will  never  refuse  that  gift  to  whoever  asks  it 
with  a  view  to  His  glory. 

How  I  wish  that  this  book  would  speak  to  the  hearts  of  those 
women  who  consider  themselves  strong-minded,  and  whom  the 
world  ironically  designates  by  that  ei)ithet.  Could  tliey  only  see 
triemselves  as  they  are  in  the  sight  of  God,  they  would  lind  them- 
selves to  be  the  weakest  of  their  weak  sex.     For  the  truly  strong- 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

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1 


604 


MY  father! 


I  ill 


I 


minded  woman  is  she  who  strives  to  conquer  herself,  and  by  charity 
and  humility  to  assist  Christ  in  establishing  His  kingdom  on  earth, 
that  she  may  dwell  with  Him  here  and  throughout  eternity  ;  and  not 
she  who  seeks  to  take  the  position  which  God  has  assigned  on  earth 
to  men.  Such  a  woman  is  weak  indeed  ;  for  she  has  not  even  the 
courage  to  endure  with  patience  the  sacrifices  which  God  imposes  on 
her  sex.  These  women  become  indignant  when  spoken  to  in  the 
name  of  the  Gospel,  of  the  law  of  suffering.  They  imagine  that  in  the 
name  of  progress  they  will  be  able  to  escape  that  law  themselves, 
and  are  foolish  enough  to  believe  that,  if  they  could  only  become  as 
men,  they  would  be  able  to  su4)press  it  altogether.  In  vain  they  are 
told,  that,  if  there  were  any  other  way  to  happiness  than  the  way  of 
the  cross,  Clirist  would  have  taught  it  to  us.  BuT this  is  a  hard  say- 
ing and  unintelligible  to  those  whose  strong-mindedness  is  borrowed 
only  from  their  pride  ;  and  it  is  clear  and  sweet  only  to  those  who 
have  learnetl  the  ineffable  strength  that  is  given  from  above  to  true 
humility. 

The  world  can  never  know  to  what  height  a  woman  can  be  ele- 
vated, until  it  lias  seen  her  divest  herself  of  her  will,  her  pride,  and 
her  vanity,  and  her  whole  mind  imbued  with  the  truth  that  creatures 
are  as  nothing,  that  she  herself  is  as  nothing,  that  the  world  and  tlje 
whole  universe  combined  are  as  nothing,  but  that  the  will  of  God  is 
everything. 

I  pray  that  I  may  ever  be  faithful  to  the  lights  and  graces  that  God 
our  Father,  in  His  mercy,  has  deigned  to  bestow  upon  me  ;  and  to 
Him  with  childlike  confidence  I  commit  my  future  life,  and  all  that 
concerns  me  for  time  and  for  eternity. 

And  yuu,  dear  reader,  who  have  followed  me  through  my  wander- 
ings, and  communed  with  my  thoughts ;  yon,  for  whom  I  have,  not 
without  many  a  pang,  laid  bare  and  dissected  my  heart,  fail  not  to 
profit  by  such  light,  as  even  from  these  images,  may  have  been  re- 
flected upon  your  mind  by  the  "  Father  of  Lights,"  and  join  me  in 
begging  His  mercy  on  me  and  on  yourself. 

And  now,  O  God,  my  father,  do  Thou  make  nic  and  mine  entirely 
Thine.  And  when  the  hour  will  come  for  me  to  render  back  this  life 
to  Thee,  who  gavest  it,  nay  I,  unworthy  as  I  have  been,  be  worthy 
of  being  received  by  Ihee  into  heaven  as  a  child  of  Mary  and  a 
spouse  of  Jesus. 


•rself,  and  by  charity 
s  kingdom  on  earth, 
It  eternity;  and  not 
as  assigned  on  earth 
lie  has  not  even  the 
ch  God  imposes  on 
n  spoken    to  in  the 
'  imagine  that  in  the 
'at  law  themselves, 
Id  only  become  as 
In  vain  they  are 
ss  than  the  way  of 
this  is  a  hard  say- 
d"ess  is  borrowed 
o"Iy  to  those  who 
5ni  above  to  triit 

^"lan  can  be  ele- 
i".  her  pride,  and 
ith  that  creatures 
he  world  and  tlje 
le  will  of  God  is 


graces  that  (Jod 
Pon  me  ;  and  to 
hTe,  and  all  that 

L>gh  my  wander- 
o'"  I  have,  not 
ea't,  fail  not  to 
have  been  le- 
^"d  join  me  in 

d  mine  entirely 
"I-  back  this  life 
-en,  be  worthy 
f  Mary  and  a 


